F:  JIG-FLOWERS 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  LADY  OF  THE 
FLAG-FLOWERS 


THE  LADY  OF  THE 
FLAG  -  FLOWERS 


FLORENCE    WILKINSON 


HERBERT  S.  STONE  AND  COMPANY 

CHICAGO  AND  NEW  YORK 

MDCCCXCIX 


COPYRIGHT    1899,    BY 
HERBERT    S.   STONE   &    CO 


•    "PS 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 

PROLOGUE 

ANCESTORS 

PART  ONE 

LITTLE   PEOPLE   OF   THE   BUSH 
CHAPTER 

I.     The  Father  of  Them  All "j* 

II.     A  Danse  Dramatique   ....  27 

PART  TWO 

DEW-OF-THE-MORNING 

I.  On  the  St.  Gabriel 

II.  An  Open  Mind    .... 

III.  The  Pique-nique    . 

IV.  A  Fancy      ......'.'.' 

V.     Yvonne  Makes  a  Promise  .  77 

VI.  Blows  A  Fair  Wind  8 

VII.  "Ah,  ah,  Cecilia." 

yy 

PART  THREE 

OPEN   WINGS 

I.  The  Winning-out  of  Willoughby     .  .   Iir 

II.  Orchardhurst  .     . 

III.  First  Times  .     .     .     .'.'.'.' 

IV.  Makers  of  Manners      ....'.'  l6l 

V.  Truth  and  Untruth    ...  I7_, 
VI.  A  Spring  Walk    .     .     .'.'.'.'  JJ 

VII.     An  Indian  Heaven 

VIII.     When  the  Birds  Fly     .     ..'.'.'.'.  '211 
5 


PART  FOUR 

WHAT  THE  WORLD   BROUGHT 
CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  The  Old  Order  Changeth 229 

II.     A  Renewed  Acquaintance    .         ...     235 

III.  Consummation 257 

IV.  The  Clear  Fountain 263 

V.  An  April  Miracle 

VI.     Another  Renewed  Acquaintance   .     .     .     281 

PART  FIVE 

THE  LADY   OF  THE  FLAG-FLOWERS 

I.     Before  the  Tenth 291 

II.  Jangling  Voices 297 

III.  Willoughby  Makes  a  Promise      ....  303 

IV.  Yvonne's  Great  Day 3" 

V.  Helen's  Letter 321 

VI.  The  Derelict 327 

VII.  The  Calling 337 

VIII.     At  Chateauheriault 345 

IX.     After  the  Tenth 357 

EPILOGUE 
Heart's-Ease 3&i 


PROLOGUE 


ANCESTORS 

"...  enfin,  voila  la  prediction  d'un  sauvage 
arrive.  Le  nomn6  Louis  Atarice,  a  qui  Louis  Qua- 
torze  donna  son  nom,  etant  en  France.  ..." 

—  Old  Manuscript  in  the  Archives 
of  Canada,  Parliament  Build 
ing,  Quebec. 


PROLOGUE 


ANCESTORS 

'You  will  not  go,  Aymar?"  plaintively 
said  Corisande,  the  Countess  d'Hery. 

As  she  rested  her  elbow  on  the  table, 
holding  the  cards  in  her  hand,  the  point- 
lace  fell  away  sumptuously  from  her  ivory- 
rounded  arm. 

The  cards,  after  the  German  fashion,  were 
curiously  engraved  around  the  margin  with 
leaves  and  bells.  The  court-cards  were  roi, 
chevalier  and  valet,  and  bore  upon  their 
faces  fantastic  figures,  often  in  attitudes  of 
grotesque  combat.  They  were  clothed, 
some  a  la  mode  Grecq,  others  after  the  elab 
orate  fashion  of  the  seventeenth  century. 

"I  must  go,  Corisande,"  said  Aymar. 
"The  King  wishes  it.  " 

Aymar  Fleurnel,  the  Count  d'He"ry,  looked 

tenderly  at  the  little  face  opposite  him.     His 

tenderness  was  neither  subjective  nor  objec 

tive.     It  was  always  in  the  possessive  case. 

3 


PROLOGUE 

In  the  oval  of  the  little  face,  dark  lashes, 
down-swept,  hid  the  gaze  he  knew.  The 
baby  curves  of  the  mouth  drooped  with 
incipient  grief.  Aymar  and  Corisande  were 
husband  and  wife  and  fond  of  each  other, 
which  was  more  than  a  nine  days'  wonder  in 
the  court  of  the  Grand  Monarque. 

"But  Madame  wishes  you  to  stay,"  said 
Corisande,  still  with  her  eyes  upon  her 
cards.  She  would  cry  if  she  looked  at 
Aymar.  To  shed  natural  tears  at  the 
Chateau  d'H6ry  were  worse  than  wicked,  it 
were  stupid;  and  merely  because  one's  hus 
band  was  going  over  seas — that  were  plainly 
bourgeoise.  And  in  mid-afternoon  in  the 
chateau  garden,  at  the  piquet  table ! 
Clearly,  Corisande  could  not  cry. 

"Therefore  the  King  wishes  me  to  go. 
It  naturally  follows." 

He  laid  a  chevalier-de-carreau  upon  the 
table.  One  noticed  the  exquisite  oblong  of 
his  polished  nails,  their  pinkness,  and  the 
symmetry  of  the  white  crescent  at  their 
bases. 

' '  See  if  you  can  match  my  Bayard !"  he  said. 

He  wished  that  Corisande  would  raise  her 
eyes.  He  could  not  see  how  much  she  cared 
when  her  lids  were  down.  Aymar  was  a 
4 


ANCESTORS 

virtuoso  in  the  emotions  as  he  was  in  cards, 
in  heraldry,  in  falconry,  and  in  all  the  other 
fine  arts  of  the  times. 

Grief  should  be  esoteric,  should  be 
expressed  intimately,  like  the  symbolism  on 
the  azure  shield  of  d'Hery. 

Corisande's  black  eyes,  veiled  by  tears, 
satisfied  without  exceeding.  They  were  like 
a  deep,  clear  pool  in  the  woods,  when  a  wet, 
overhanging  branch  suddenly  patters  a 
silvery  tremolo  upon  its  ebony  surface. 

"Then  I  will  go  with  you.  And  look,  my 
Alessandro  takes  your  Bayard." 

She  drew  the  cards  toward  her  and  patted 
them  prettily.  Then  she  raised  her  eyes  to 
her  husband  and  smiled  at  him. 

The  brown  water  just  trembled  a  little 
now  with  the  reflection  of  wavering  leaves 
above  it. 

"Shall  I  not  go,  Kebeco?" 

She  addressed  a  tame  shrike  that  sat  sul 
lenly  on  a  low  branch  of  the  mulberry-tree 
growing  against  the  garden  wall.  They 
had  named  him  Kebeco  after  that  rock  in 
the  new  world  on  which  had  lately  been  built 
the  Chateau  St.  Louis. 

Kebeco,  realizing  his  chain,  refrained 
from  making  a  strike  at  the  taper  finger 
5 


PROLOGUE 

raised  temptingly  toward  him.  But  he  sank 
his  head  down  into  his  neck  till  the  ruffled 
feathers  stood  up  angrily  all  around.  He 
looked  like  a  Frenchman  who  shrugs  his 
shoulders  up  to  his  ears,  with  an  indignant 
"Je  ne  sais. " 

"Aha!"  laughed  Aymar,  imitating  the 
shrike,  "Kebeco  will  not  answer  as  to  that." 

"We  will  play  on  it, "  said  Corisande.  "Qui 
perd  gagne.  What  do  you  say,  Aymar?" 

The  shrike  watched  them  with  round, 
gloating  eyes. 

"You  are  delicious.  So  be  it,"  said  the 
Count. 

His  artistic  sense  was  tickled  by  the 
nonchalance  of  the  idea. 

She  put  down  her  valet-de-tre*fle.  So  they 
played  at  piquet,  the  lady  and  the  cavalier, 
and  the  stake  was  whether  or  no  she  should 
travel  with  him  over-seas.  Her  skirt,  that 
was  ashes-of-roses,  made  an  ample  glisten 
ing  circle  about  her  on  the  close-cropped 
green  of  the  parterre.  Lace  ruffles  fell 
about  his  silk-stockinged  knees,  crossed 
under  the  gilt  and  flower  inlaid  table.  Her 
face  was  like  a  fruit  above  the  points  of  lace 
that  rayed  stiffly  out,  plate-shaped,  below 
her  chin.  Her  hair  was  dressed  high  and 
6 


ANCESTORS 

smooth,  like  the  coiffure  of  Gabrielle 
d'Estrees  in  the  portrait.  The  lofty  puffs 
above  and  the  expansive  collar  below 
enhanced  the  child-like  softness  of  her  con 
tour  and  expression.  Quaintly  frivolous 
they  looked,  like  a  picture  on  an  ivory 
French  fan. 

So  they  played  at  piquet  together,  Aymar 
and  Corisande.  But  the  stake  was  posterity. 

Two  figures  enter  the  garden  now,  that 
one  does  not  see  in  the  painted  pictures  on 
fans.  One  of  them  surely  has  never  before 
seen  a  chateau  garden  nor  a  cavalier  and  lady 
playing  at  piquet.  But  for  truth's  sake 
they  must  go  into  this  picture.  Also,  it  is 
due  to  posterity. 

"Voila!"  said  Aymar,  seeing  the  figures 
between  the  arch  of  twin  oleanders  trained 
to  intertwine.  "The  Abbe*  Delfouche*  and 
his  Savage." 

After  the  new-comers  had  been  greeted, 
they  sat  down  on  the  marble  seat,  built  into 
the  wall  below  the  purple-fruited  mulberry. 
Tall  urns  of  flowers  flanked  it  at  either  end. 

"He  is  one  of  Pere  Breboeuf's  Hurons, " 
said  the  abbot.  "He  has  been  with  us  three 
months.  It  is  his  first  visit  outside  convent 
walls. ' ' 


PROLOGUE 

"You  honor  us,  Monsieur,"  said  Aymar 
to  the  Indian,  hiding  a  smile  behind  his 
curled  mustache. 

But  the  ends  of  the  smile  came  out,  and 
were  not  lost  upon  the  astute  savage. 

To  Aymar's  surprise,  he  was  answered  in 
dignified,  though  broken,  French. 

"You  smile,  Monsieur,"  said  Louis  Atar- 
ice.  "In  our  country  we  do  not  jest  with 
strangers." 

At  the  sound  of  the  Huron's  voice,  Kebeco 
shifted  his  position,  hopping  the  length  of 
his  chain  to  get  a  view  of  the  stranger. 

The  Indian  looked  up,  also  the  abbot. 

"One  of  those  little  pie's  greches, "  said  the 
Count.  "He  was  trained  by  a  pupil  of 
Albert  de  Luynes.  We  have  named  him 
Kebeco." 

"Kebeco,"  repeated  Louis  Atarice,  in 
liquid  syllables  that  at  once  transformed  the 
shrike's  name  into  an  unknown  tongue. 
"Kebeco!" 

The  shrike  uttered  a  low,  answering  note, 
and  the  red  circles  around  his  eyes  gleamed 
as  he  glowered  at  Louis  Atarice. 

While  the  shrike  and  the  Indian  looked  at 
each  other  thus,  Corisande  scrutinized  her 
visitor.  The  Hurons  have  been  called  the 

8 


ANCESTORS 

nobles  of  the  Indians.  His  bronze  features, 
little  written  upon  by  play  of  emotion,  yet 
had  not  the  blankness  of  an  unlived  life. 
They  were  rather  a  mask,  with  the  severity 
of  mystery  its  mold.  His  French  garments 
sat  with  conscious  superfluousness  upon  his 
classic  person.  Not  Louis  Atarice,  but  his 
frivolous  waistcoat  was  ill  at  ease. 

"How  like  you  our  river?"  asked  Coris- 
ande,  putting  down  a  card  absently  in 
response  to  her  husband's  urgent  brows. 

"Much.  For  I  have  learned  how  far 
superior  is  our  Father  of  Waters, ' '  answered 
Louis  Atarice. 

"But  Paris?"  said  the  abbot,  amused  at 
his  protege's  lack  of  urbanity. 

"It  is  not  Ihonatiria, "  said  Louis  Atarice, 
blandly. 

They  all  laughed,  except  the  Indian. 
Even  Kebeco  jeered  a  little,  shutting  one 
eye.  But  the  other  eye  was  open,  fixed 
apprehensively  on  the  Huron.  Did  he 
recognize  a  kindred  savagery  in  that  impas 
sive  face? 

Corisande  and  Aymar  played  on  at  piquet. 

"Ventre  Saint-Gris!  as  le  roi  Henri  used 
to  say,"  cried  Aymar.     "I  have  won.     You 
have  lost  your  stake,  Corisande. ' ' 
9 


PROLOGUE 

' '  Not  so,  Aymar, ' '  exclaimed  the  Countess, 
as  she  pushed  back  her  chair  from  the 
table,  and  adjusted  the  emerald  fleur-de-lis 
at  her  tiny  waist.  "It  is  I  who  capot. " 

"You  forget,  mon  amie,"  laughed  the 
Count,  "who  wins,  loses.  The  stake  is 
mine." 

"You  are  going  to  join  the  Count  de  Buade 
in  New  France,  Monsieur?"  inquired  the 
abbot,  as  they  ascended  together  the  ter 
raced  steps  to  the  chateau. 

"The  King  has  sent  me,"  said  Aymar, 
dramatically  dolorous. 

Then,  veering  round  to  vivacity : 

"And  behold,  my  compatriot!" 

He  spread  out  his  jeweled  hands  toward 
the  Huron.  But  Louis  Atarice  was  more  to 
him  than  compatriot,  if  he  could  only  know 
it.  He  was  fellow-ancestor,  as  well. 

Kebeco,  left  alone  on  the  mulberry-tree 
made  a  jab  at  an  iridescent  whir  that 
streaked  past  him.  The  humming-bird  flew 
on,  unmolested,  to  his  lilies.  Kebeco  fell 
asleep,  with  one  red-rimmed  eye  half-open, 
turned  toward  the  lilies. 


10 


PART    ONE 


THE    LITTLE    PEOPLE    OF    THE   BUSH 

"It  was  na  in  the  ha',  the  ha', 
Nor  in  the  painted  bower, 
But  it  was  in  the  gude  green  wood 
Amang  the  lilly-flower.  " 

—Old  Ballad. 


ii 


CHAPTER   I 

THE     FATHER     OF     THEM     ALL 

The  blows  of  Babou,  the  Indian  wood 
cutter,  rang  against  the  great  pine-tree,  and 
echoed  through  the  quiet  wood  on  the  hill 
side. 

Yvonne,  little  and  brown,  sitting  on  a 
stump,  watched  him.  All  the  French-Indian 
blood  in  her  was  stirred  by  the  incipient 
tragedy.  The  fir-trees  that  stood  all  around, 
taciturn,  they  were  watching,  too.  The 
great  pine-tree,  he  was  the  father  of  them 
all. 

Little  Huron  children  down  by  the  river 
were  gathering  raspberries,  and  calling  to 
each  other.  Did  they  not  hear  the  blows  of 
the  wicked  Babou's  ax?  How  could  they 
then  care  to  look  for  raspberries  and  ,to 
laugh? 

Old  Mere  Gaspard  was  picking  everlasting 
flowers  over  there  in  that  hilly  pasture.  She 
was  going  to  make  a  bed  of  them.  She  was 
bending  over  her  bag,  and  did  not  seem  to 
listen  to  the  cruel  sounds.  Did  she  not 
13 


THE  LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

know  that  the  Father  of  them  all  was  being 
killed?  But  she  had  such  wrinkly  eyes,  and 
she  stooped  so, — it  was  probable  that  she 
did  not  know  how  very  tall  he  was,  and  how 
far  he  put  his  arms  out,  like  a  priest  bless 
ing  the  hillside. 

The  blows  of  Babou's  ax  still  rang  against 
the  resistant  wood. 

"Ma  foi,  he  has  the  good  heart!" 

The  little  brown  hands  were  tightly 
clasped. 

"He  will  not  yield  to  that  cruel  Babou. " 

A  big,  triangular  gash  began  to  show 
white  at  the  broad  base  of  the  trunk. 

"Is  not  that  enough?  Why  will  he  not 
stop?" 

Still  the  blows  went  on.  The  bronze 
features  of  the  cutter  were  as  hard  as  ever. 

"It  is  almost  time  for  the  great  tremble  to 
come,"  Yvonne  thought,  "and  then  there 
will  be  such  a  groan,  and  he  will  fall  over, 
the  poor  tree,  with  his  beautiful  arms  out 
spread " 

She  caught  her  breath  with  the  horror  of 
expectancy. 

"Perhaps  he  will  fall  on  Babou's  head, 
and  then  he  will  be  sorry,  le  me'chant." 

No,  she  could  not  stand  it  any  longer. 
14 


THE   FATHER   OF  THEM   ALL 

She  ran  up,  and  out  gushed  a  torrent  of 
expostulations  upon  stolid,  astonished 
Babou. 

' '  His  children  are  all  watching  you.  They 
are  hating  you  for  it." 

Her  words  came  quickly,  and  there  was  a 
sob  behind  them.  She  was  too  much  Indian 
to  cry,  but  she  was  French  enough  to  be 
excited.  Still,  she  was  ashamed  of  the 
choke  in  her  voice. 

"He  has  been  so  brave,  and  stood  so 
stoutly.  Even  now  he  will  cure  himself,  the 
dear  tree,  if  you  do  not  touch  him  again 
with  your  stupid  ax." 

As  Babou  raised  his  arms  imperturbably 
for  the  next  blow  that  was  to  strike  deep  at 
the  very  heart  of  the  wounded  tree,  Yvonne 
jumped  up  with  all  her  tiny  strength,  and 
clung  with  both  hands  around  his  lifted 
arm,  her  little  moccasined  feet  dangling 
some  inches  above  the  ground. 

"Babou,"  she  shrieked  into  his  ear,  "you 
will  be  sorry  some  other  day.  Arretez! 
Arretez ! ' ' 

Her  will  glowed  out  of  her  eyes  like  two 
wild  beasts,  and  her  shrill  words  hit  him  like 
pebbles. 

"Well,  then,  petite,"  he  muttered,  shaking 
15 


THE  LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

her  off  from  his  arm  as  if  she  had  been  a 
persistent  kitten,  "I  will  leave  it  alone. 
You  are  toute  folle,  but  I  will  leave  it 
alone." 

And  the  tree  afterward  grew  and  flour 
ished,  and  Yvonne  often  sat  in  the  angle  of 
its  roots  that  protruded  along  the  ground 
like  great,  gaunt,  knotted  fingers,  and 
caressed  the  seamed  and  gummy  scar  where 
Babou's  ax  had  made  the  hollow. 

"Le  pauvre!"  she  murmured.  "When  this 
one  goes  to  heaven,  the  Blessed  Virgin  will 
lean  against  his  trunk  and  then  he  will  be 
all  well." 

And  the  branches  of  the  tree,  with  their 
multifarious  sighs,  seemed  to  its  little 
consoler  to  breathe  a  melancholy  resignation. 

Etienne  Brusseau's  house,  where  Yvonne 
lived,  stands  on  a  knoll,  with  a  rising  hill 
side  behind  it.  The  hillside  is  clothed  with 
fir  and  pine  trees,  sparsely  scattered.  From 
the  top  of  the  hill,  if  one  ever  gets  there 
through  the  cedar  and  juniper  underbrush 
and  the  slides  of  rock  near  the  summit,  one 
looks  down  on  the  plateau  where  the  Indian 
village  lies.  Let  it  be  called  La  Jeune 
Vallette,  though  that  is  not  its  name. 
Little,  rambling,  vine-broidered  houses, 
16 


THE   FATHER   OF   THEM   ALL 

painted  gray  by  wind  and  weather,  they 
wander  uncertainly  over  the  irresolute 
streets,  up  above  and  away  from  the  reso 
lute  white  high-road  that  with  French  pre-. 
cision  goes  neatly  from  one  Norman  hamlet 
to  another.  Down  by  the  high-road  is  the 
Huron  Chapel,  fashioned  like  the  Holy 
House  at  Loretto,  built  for  the  Indians  two 
hundred  years  ago  when  the  remnant  of 
their  scattered  tribe  found  refuge  in  this 
sequestered  spot.  The  somber  fir-woods 
are  all  about,  above  and  below  and  on 
every  side  of  the  plateau ;  and  there  to  the 
right  the  river  St.  Gabriel  winds  silverly 
through  its  fringing  trees,  and  below  the 
bridge,  where  one  sees  that  flash  of  white, 
it  takes  its  foaming  leap  into  the  deep  and 
tortuous  ravine.  To  the  left,  behind  that 
hill,  is  the  Herb-Gatherers'  Village,  white 
houses  sprinkled  in  a  green  valley,  but  they 
are  very  far  away,  and  no  road  goes  there, 
only  a  trail  through  the  woods  and  a  foot 
path  through  the  meadows ;  so  no  one  ever 
visits  them.  They  are  an  idle  folk,  who 
dance  all  day  Sundays,  and  speak  a  strange 
patois  of  their  own. 

Off  to  the  far  north,  toward  La  Montagne 
Ronde,  but  away  from  Val  Cartier,  lies  Les 
17 


THE   LADY  OF   THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

Cent  Arpents,  where  other  Indians  live.  It 
is  very  lonely  to  live  there,  and  they  are 
mostly  old,  old  people,  and  some  of  them 
have  never  been  even  to  Chateaubourg, 
where  the  White  Sisters  have  a  Convent 
with  beautiful  statues  among  the  trees  in 
their  walled  garden.  There  is  where  Yvonne 
Brusseau  went  to  school.  The  Sisters 
were  very  good  to  her,  and  told  her  step 
father,  Monsieur  Brusseau,  the  moccasin- 
maker,  that  she  was  tres  aimable  and  tres 
sage.  "Despite  her  Huron  blood,"  they 
had  said  among  themselves,  but  they  did  not 
say  it  to  her  stepfather,  for  Monsieur  Brus 
seau  had  married  into  the  Huron  tribe,  and 
his  wife,  who  had  been  Madame  Tahour- 
enche",  was  little  Yvonne's  mother. 

So  Etienne  took  land  in  the  Indian  reser 
vation,  and  built  a  house  like  the  little  Nor 
man  houses,  with  their  gables  and  low  eaves 
and  small  windows  and  thick  walls,  that  the 
French  cultivateurs  live  in  and  have  always 
lived  in  since  their  great-grandfathers  came 
over  from  Normandy  hundreds  of  years  ago 
and  built  homes  in  La  Nouvelle  France, 
just  like  the  houses  they  had  left  behind 
them  among  the  Normandy  pastures. 

But  Etienne  Brusseau's  house  was  larger 
18 


THE   FATHER   OF  THEM  ALL 

and  more  pretentious,  and  standing  up 
there  on  the  knoll  with  the  fir-wood  behind 
it,  it  seemed  to  command  the  village,  as  if  it 
had  been  the  manse  of  a  seignory. 

Some  of  the  trees  had  been  cut  down  for 
Etienne's  winter  firewood,  and  others  to 
make  a  road  through  to  the  river-pasture 
where  Etienne  kept  his  cows. 

But  among  those  that  were  left  was  the 
great  pine-tree,  with  its  plume-tipped 
branches,  its  trunk  that  two  men  could  not 
hold  between  outstretched  arms,  and  its 
many  mysterious  voices. 

"He  talks  the  Huron  tongue,"  said 
Yvonne  to  her  cousin,  Poleon  Gros-Louys. 
The  two  children  sat  together  at  the  foot  of 
the  pine-tree. 

Yvonne,  like  the  others  of  her  tribe,  spoke 
the  French  patois  of  the  neighborhood.  The 
Huron  language  had  not  been  spoken  among 
the  Indians  for  years,  being  preserved  only 
in  surnames,  which  were  still  given  to  those 
of  Huron  descent,  and  in  the  patronymics 
which  remained.  There  was  also  a  big 
manuscript  dictionary,  which  a  Jesuit  mis 
sionary  long  ago  had  compiled,  now 
in  the  possession  of  Paul  Tahourenche, 
Yvonne's  uncle,  of  noble  stock,  who  swept 

19 


THE   LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

out  the  Chapel   and    made    toy   canoes  for 
a  living. 

"I  know  he  talks  the  Huron  tongue," 
Yvonne  repeated.  ' '  I  have  heard  Grandmere 
say  some  words,  and  they  are  all  soft  and 
gurgling,  with  little  sighs  in  them — like 
that." 

She  listened  awhile  with  a  rapt  expression 
on  her  face,  while  the  wind  played  delicately 
in  the  branches. 

Little  Poleon  was  not  given  over  to  emo 
tional  imaginings. 

"You  say  foolish  things  sometimes,"  he 
remarked,  dryly.  "You  are  eight  years  old, 
and  you  seem  to  know  no  more  than  Grand- 
mere. " 

"Grandmere  is  wise,  even  though  she  is 
old,"  returned  Yvonne.  "When  the  tree 
was  young, — oh,  so  many  years  ago,  as  long 
ago  as  there  are  needles  on  the  tree,  even  as 
long  ago  as  when  Grandmere  was  little,  like 
me; — we  were  all  Indians  here,  and  we 
talked  Huron,  and  the  tree  was  young  then, 
and  he  learned  the  tongue,  and  now  he  is 
old  he  cannot  forget,  canst  thou,  dear 
tree?" 

She  put  her  cheek  up  against  the  trunk 
affectionately. 

20 


THE   FATHER   OF   THEM   ALL 

"Sister  Angelina  says  it  is  easy  to  learn 
when  one  is  young." 

"Sister  Angeline  knows  only  a  few 
things,"  responded  Poleon,  with  grave 
intolerance.  "She  can  neither  paddle  nor 
swim,  nor  can  she  shoot  a  wild  duck  on  the 
wing,  nor  catch  the  big  trout  in  the  rapids. 
All  that  I  can  do. ' ' 

"It  is  true,"  replied  Yvonne,  admiringly. 
"You  are  very  wise,  Pole'on." 

"There  is  but  one  thing  that  makes  me 
unhappy,"  continued  Pole'on,  reflectively. 
1 '  I  am  only  twelve.  It  is  such  a  long  time 
one  has  to  wait  to  be  a  man. ' ' 

"And  what  will  you  do  when  you  are  a 
man,  Pole'on?" 

"First,  I  will  marry  you,  and  then  I  will 
go  to  hunt  the  big  moose  up  where  the 
Mistassini  River  goes.  Uncle  Paul  has  told 
me  about  it. ' ' 

This  large  future  did  not  produce  upon 
Yvonne  the  effect  that  the  swarthy  cousin 
had  desired.  Instead,  her  lip  trembled. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  will  leave  me 
alone  while  you  hunt  the  big  moose?  I 
shall  not  like  it  to  stay  alone.  For  I  suppose 
by  the  time  that  I  am  old  enough  to  be 
married,  papan  and  maman — tout  le  monde 


THE   LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

— will  be  old  and  withered,  and  will  be  sit 
ting  in  front  of  the  fire,  nodding  at  the  logs 
when  they  turn  and  crackle.  You  will  not 
go  away  and  leave  me  alone,  Pole'on?" 

"You  would  be  afraid  to  be  in  the  woods 
where  the  big  moose  are ' ' 

"Pole'on,  I  am  not  afraid  when  it  thun 
ders,  nor  am  I  afraid  hardly  ever.  And  if  I 
should  be  afraid  I  would  say  my  beads  so 
fast  that  I  would  forget  all  about  it." 

"You  were  afraid  when  we  went  up  the 
Montagne  Ronde  last  summer, — the  time 
that  I  shot  two  partridges. ' ' 

Poleon  glowed  at  the  reminiscence. 

"I  was  afraid  of  la  Jongleuse,  not  of  the 
woods.  And  you  must  remember,  Poleon, 
that  then  I  was  only  seven.  There  is  much 
difference  between  seven  and  eight." 

"There  is  no  use  in  many  words,"  said 
Pole'on,  bringing  together  his  thin  lips  in  a 
grim  fashion  that  he  had. 

"I  am  going  to  marry  you,  and  I  am 
going  to  hunt  the  big  moose." 

Then  it  was  that  the  feminine  in  Yvonne 
asserted  itself. 

"Perhaps  I  shall  not  want  to  marry  you," 
she  said,  with  a  dainty  triumph  in  her 
tone. 


THE   FATHER   OF   THEM   ALL 

"You  will  have  to  want  to,"  returned 
Poleon.  "I  will  make  you." 

"You  will  make — me — want — to  marry 
you,"  said  Yvonne,  slowly,  quite  bewildered 
by  this  invincible  position.  "I  cannot  even 
make  myself  want  to  do  a  thing.  Sister 
Angeline  told  me  it  would  be  a  great  virtue 
if  I  would  learn  the  thirteen  trials  of  Sainte 
Elizabeth.  I  tried  to  want  to  do  it,  but  I 
could  not  make  myself." 

"But  I  can  make  you,  I,"  said  Poleon, 
wriggling  up  the  tree  trunk  and  looking 
down  at  her  from  over  the  lowest  branch, 
far  above  her  head. 

"You  will  forget  to  make  me,"  piped 
Yvonne. 

"That  is  not  my  name,"  he  called  down. 
"My  name  is  Qui-n'-oublie-jamais." 

"Odilonrohannin!  Odilonrohannin.  Qui- 
n'-oublie-jamais,"  he  chanted,  in  the 
topmost  branches  of  the  Father-of-Them- 
All. 

Then — "Climb  up  here,  if  you  can," 
tauntingly. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  climb,"  said  Yvonne, 
standing  at  the  foot  of  the  tree  and  gazing 
up  into  the  world  of  plumes. 

"I  am  going  down  by  the  river  to  play 
23 


THE   LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

with  Tissette  and  Evraud.  We  shall  have  a 
war-dance.  I  shall  enjoy  that  much 
better." 

She  ran  off,  crooning,  as  she  ran,  an 
Indian  song  her  grandmother  had  taught 
her: 

"Wabose",  wabose*, 
Where,  ah! 
Where,  ah! 
Little  white  one, 
Are  you  going? 
Wabos6,  wabose. " 

Her  voice  had  a  haunting,  tenuous  sweet 
ness,  like  the  siffleur's  that  whistles  by  the 
cold  Canadian  streams. 

Pole*on,  despoiled  of  the  masculine  privi 
lege  of  flaunting  the  unattainable  in  the 
face  of  femininity,  climbed  unhappily  down 
from  the  tree. 

These  two  children  represented  the  best 
that  there  was  in  Huron  stock.  For  two 
hundred  years  their  tribe  had  been  settled 
in  the  heart  of  a  French  people,  there 
on  their  plateau  of  La  Jeune  Vallette. 
Scarcely  differing  in  appearance  from  the 
French  habitans  around  them,  they  yet  held 
themselves  apart  and  clung  to  the  Huron 
traditions  with  tenacious  pride.  The  black 

24 


THE   FATHER   OF   THEM  ALL 

hair  and  eyes  persist,  to  the  last  dilution, 
with  Indian  blood,  but  the  other  features 
become  soon  modified.  The  copper  skin 
fades  out  sometimes  with  the  first  cross 
breed. 

Poleon  seemed  a  reversal  to  a  more 
primitive  type,  and  bade  fair  to  be  the 
counterpart  of  his  ancestor  Gros-Louys,  a 
son  of  Louys  Amantacha,  the  interpreter, 
who  has  gone  into  history  through  his  con 
nection  with  the  Jesuit  missionary,  Pere  le 
Jeune. 

Here  and  there,  along  Yvonne's  ancestral 
line,  waved  the  plumes  and  clashed  the 
sword  of  a  French  chevalier.  Soldiers  of 
fortune,  they  or  their  parents  had  emigrated 
with  Roverval,  with  Champlain,  or  with 
Montmagny,  and  some  savage  beauty  had 
mitigated  for  them  the  horrors  of  the 
wilderness. 

As  Pole'on  walked  slowly  to  the  house, 
he  saw  the  cure  coming  toward  him. 

' '  I  am  looking  for  Yvonne, ' '  said  the  Cur6 
St.  Clair. 

"She  is  dancing  a  war-dance  down  by  the 
river,"    said    Poleon,   with    studied    partic 
ularity.      "Did  you  wish  to  talk  with  her 
about  the  Good  God?" 
25 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG- FLOWERS 

Up  from  the  river  came  Yvonne's  clear 
voice : 

"Where,  ah! 
Little  white  one, 
Are  you  going?" 

The  words  lingered  on  the  still  air  like 
autumn  leaves  that  circle  and  circle  before 
they  reach  the  ground. 


CHAPTER   II 

A    DANSE    DRAMATIQUE 

Instead  of  the  annual  opera,  La  Jetme 
Vallette  has  a  war-dance.  The  French- 
Hurons  have  carefully  hoarded  this  tradi 
tion,  being  encouraged  thereto  by  occasional 
visitors  from  Quebec,  and  once  the  Gov 
ernor-General. 

The  dance  is  in  three  acts:  Act  I,  Watch 
ing  for  the  Enemy;  Act  II,  The  Attack; 
Act  III,  The  Return. 

Below  the  Falls,  along  the  edge  of  the  river 
gorge,  is  a  fir-wood.  You  enter  the  wood 
just  beyond  the  bridge  where  the  Chateau- 
bourg  road  crosses  the  St.  Gabriel.  An 
Indian  trail  is  like  the  odor  of  violets.  If 
you  come  too  close  you  cannot  perceive  it 
at  all.  Where  the  coppery  needles  have  a 
more  slippery  shine,  there  you  walk.  That 
is  the  trail.  You  must  not  try  to  remember 
your  bearings,  nor  to  note  the  landmarks. 
Let  the  trail  lead  you  along,  and  by  and  by 
the  sound  of  the  rushing  river  down  in  its 
narrow  ravine  comes  more  faintly  to  your 
27 


THE   LADY  OF   THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

ears.  You  reach  an  open  green  set  mys 
teriously  down  into  the  heart  of  this  somber 
wood.  The  grass  is  short  here,  and  under 
the  baby  pines  and  firs  the  Indian  pipes  are 
standing  in  little  white  brotherhoods,  trans 
parent  ghosts  of  some  dim  revel. 

Here  the  danse  dramatique  is  danced 
every  August  by  La  Jeune  Vallette.  From 
out  the  charmed  circle  of  the  fir-trees,  no 
sounds  of  their  revelry  reach  the  outside 
world. 

The  habitan  jogs  along  in  his  cart  to 
Ancienne  Vallette,  while  the  olive-skinned 
people  of  the  plateau  shake  the  calibash  and 
cry: 

"Yo-hi-ouan." 

The  village  Cure",  Father  St.  Clair,  said 
mass  every  Sunday  morning  in  the  old 
Huron  chapel.  He  liked  its  dim  old  age 
and  naive  suggestion  of  the  forest.  The 
silver  was  the  direct  gift  of  the  great  Louis 
to  the  Hurons,  also  the  altar  cloth,  out  of 
which  looks  the  embroidered  face  of  the 
Dauphin,  with  his  tarnished  gold-thread 
hair,  his  round,  incoherent  eyes,  and  his 
red,  ropy  lips.  His  expression  is  necessarily 
somewhat  disjointed.  This  venerated  por 
trait  was  embroidered  by  Madame  La 


A  DANSE   DRAMATIQUE 

Pompadour  and  other  noble  and  pious 
ladies  of  Louis'  court.  And,  of  a  summer's 
day,  the  little  pine-cones  will  tap  against 
the  leaded  window,  and  sometimes  an 
inquisitive  squirrel  pauses  an  alert  instant, 
dramatic  hand  on  breast,  peering  above  the 
opened  pane,  when  the  Kyrie  Eleison  floats 
out  on  a  still  morning. 

Father  St.  Clair  was  a  meditative  man, 
therefore  he  liked  the  Huron  chapel,  with 
its  old-world  pictures  and  historic  memories, 
better  than  the  parish  church,  gray  and 
Gothic,  which  was  the  pride  of  the  habitan. 

He  went  to  the  fir-wood  this  morning, 
after  mass,  with  his  Life  of  St.  Hieronymus. 
Unconsciously,  he  followed  the  trail,  and  it 
took  him  to  the  charmed  green.  He  sat 
himself  down  at  the  foot  of  an  outstanding 
fir  and  read: 

"No  labor  is  hard,  no  time  is  long, 
wherein  the  glory  of  eternity  is  the  mark  we 
level  at." 

He  closed  the  book  over  his  finger  and 
thought.  Long  ago  an  emptiness  had  come 
into  his  life,  and  he  had  sought  refuge 
against  it  in  the  priesthood.  There  is  no 
sorrow  more  corrosive  than  emptiness. 
With  his  long,  thin,  reaching  fingers,  his 
29 


THE   LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

thin  lips  that  continually  settled  and 
re-settled  themselves  into  tired  repose,  his 
deep-set  gray  eyes  with  their  always 
unanswered  look,  he  was  as  different  as  pos 
sible  from  his  confreres  of  the  provincial 
church,  upon  whose  faces  rested  the  sodden 
content,  the  thus-far-no-further  peace  that 
the  Roman  Catholic  faith  so  often  confers. 
A  little  figure  sat  on  the  ground'a  short 
distance  away,  turned  sideways  from  Father 
St.  Clair.  He  saw  it  as  he  sat  there  with 
his  finger  in  his  book.  It  was  little  Yvonne. 
She  was  swaying  to  and  fro,  as  she  swung  a 
basket  that  depended  from  a  hemlock 
bough.  She  crooned  a  lullaby.  It  was  in 
French,  but  the  refrain  was  Huron : 

"Oua-oua,  oua-oui, 
Sleep,  little  daughter,  sleep. 

'Tis  your  mother  watching  by. 
Swinging,  swinging,  she  will  keep 

Little  daughter,  lullaby. 

Oua-oua,  oua-oui, 

Oua,  oua-oui." 

Yvonne  was  crooning  seductively,  but 
"little  daughter"  seemed  uneasy  in  her 
cradle.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  baby  fox  that 
Poison  had  given  her.  Perhaps  youthful 
foxes  are  not  accustomed  to  be  rocked  to 
30 


A  DANSE  DRAMATIQUE 

sleep,  or  perhaps  they  do  not  enjoy  a  cradle 
song.  Little  Renard  manifested  the  same 
signs  of  agitation  that  other  infants,  under 
similar  circumstances,  show. 

A  pair  of  pointed  ears  appeared  once  above 
the  basket-rim,  and  again  they  ^bobbed  up, 
with  bright  restless  eyes  beneath  them. 
That  their  mutinous  efforts  resulted  in  no 
further  success  was  due  to  a  small  brown  hand 
laid  firmly  upon  the  palpitating  body  of 
the  unwilling  "little  daughter."  But  the 
crooning  voice  was  hypocritically  tender. 
Yvonne  was  trying  a  new  cradle-song.  The 
delicious  tune  of  it  rocked  to  and  fro  with 
those  haunting  cadences  and  strange  har 
monic  dips  and  changes J;hat  characterize  the 
habitan  songs. 

"Le  premier  jour  de  Mai, 
Que  barrai-je  a  ma  mie, 
Que  barrai-je  a  ma  mie? 

Une  perdriole. 
Qui  vient,  qui  va,  qui  vole, 

Une  perdriole. 

Up  you  go,  down  you  go,  so-so,  so-so " 

Father    St.   Clair    did  not    read    his    St. 
Hieronymus;    the    little    bercetise    charmed 
him  into  a  half-dream  of  the  past. 
31 


THE   LADY  OF   THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 


;Le  second  jour  de  Mai- 


Yvonne's  berceuse  had  infinite  possibili 
ties  ;  all  the  thirty-one  days  of  May  might  be 
enlisted  to  calm  a  troubled  child,  and  all 
things  that  creep  or  walk  or  fly  might  be 
laid  at  its  feet. 

"Le    second   jour  de  Mai, 
Que  barrai-je  a  ma  mie," 

sang  on  Yvonne,  but  she  had  barely  got  to 
the  deux  tourterelles  when  Renard  leaped 
clear  of  his  odious  cradle.  He  wore  a  pink 
calico  slip,  belted  most  uncomfortably  about 
his  middle,  and  ruffled  absurdly  about  the 
skirt.  The  gown  had  been  fitted  to  him  in 
the  upright  position,  and  now  that  he  stood 
on  all  fours,  the  bow  fluttering  on  his  back 
and  the  ruffle  flapping  about  his  bushy  tail, 
the  "design"  lost  its  fitness.  Yvonne  herself 
laughed  as  the  pink  calico  fox  trotted 
unconsciously  away. 

"Go  then,  thou,"  she  cried.  "It  is  time 
for  the  second  act  to  begin. ' ' 

She  thrust  her  head  out  from  under  the 
branches.  Her  black,  parted  hair  fell  in 
straight  locks  down  her  brown  cheeks. 

You  see  now  that  she  notes  the  distant 
presence  of  the  enemy. 
32 


A   DANSE   DRAMATIQUE 

Back  and  forth  she  creeps,  now  with  her 
hand  to  her  ear,  now  with  her  ear  to  the 
ground,  till  she  makes  a  sudden  retreat  and 
crouches  down  low  in  the  underbrush.  The 
air  is  heavy  with  suspense.  You  can  see 
the  unconscious  marauder  drawing  slowly 
towards  the  toils. 

Now  Yvonne  throws  all  caution  to  the 
four  winds  of  heaven.  She  rushes  out  from 
her  ambush — and  there  sits  Father  St.  Clair, 
with  his  solemn  gaze  upon  her. 

Yvonne  sees  him,  and  he  is  sacred  in  her 
eyes,  not  as  the  reverend  Cure",  but  as  valu 
able  stage  property.  For  the  furore  is  upon 
her. 

Her  finger  pointed  at  him,  she  sings  again, 
liltingly,  scornfully: 

"C'etait  un  vieux  sauvage 
Tour  noir,  tout  barbourilla." 

Then  with  a  sudden  change  of  voice  she 
says: 

"You  are  the  old  savage,  Father.  I  have 
discovered  you.  You  must  call  for  your 
warriors.  Now,  quick. 

"Ouich'ka!     Ouich'ka." 

The  reverend  priest  springs  to  his  feet. 
"Yo-hi-ouan!" 

33 


THE  LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

How  splendidly  his  voice  rings  out  in  the 
war-cry ! 

"  It  is  magnificent, ' '  says  Yvonne.     ' '  Now 
you  are  the  warriors.     They  have  come. ' ' 
Tauntingly  the  song  continues : 

"Avec  sa  vielle  couverte 
Et  son  sac  a  tabac. 
Ouich'  ka. " 

The  arrows  fly  thick  and  fast.  Hither 
and  thither  flees  the  helpless  Cure";  his 
black-skirted  robe  flaps  out  behind  him  like 
a  crow's  wings.  His  gray  hair  floats  under 
his  close  cap.  But  the  relentless  pursuer  is 
ever  at  his  back. 

"Ah,  ah  tenaouich'  tenaga. 
Tenaouich'  tenaga,  ouich'  ka. " 

"I  have  shot  you  three  times  in  the 
heart,"  says  Yvonne,  severely,  fixing  her 
eyes  upon  the  flushed  face  of  the  obliging 
enemy. 

"Why  do  you  not  fall  dead?" 

"Is  it  not  possible  that  I  may  escape?" 
asks  Father  St.  Clair. 

"You  have  escaped,  some  of  you,  but  you, 
you  are  the  last  foe,  and  you  are  to  be  the 
dead  on  the  field. 


A  DANSE   DRAMATIQUE 

"How  else  should  I  sing  the  triumph  song? 

"Now,  while  I  sing  these  last  lines,  I 
will  shoot  you  again,  even  though  it  be  for 
the  fourth  time.  Then  you  fall. 

"Ah,  ah,  tenaouich'  tenaga. " 

"Yes,  that  is  ravishing,  so.  You  make  a 
beautiful  dead." 

She  is  left  alone  now,  with  the  frenzy  of 
triumph  in  her  unseeing  eyes,  and  then  the 
maddening  dance  begins.  Her  little  yellow- 
moccasined  feet  twinkle  up  and  down,  her 
black  hair  streams,  her  arms  wave.  It  is  the 
great  war-dance,  transposed  into  the  fem 
inine  key. 

When  it  was  all  over  and  the  panting  little 
breast  had  ceased  to  heave,  Yvonne  stood 
quiet  on  the  deserted  battle-field.  She  put 
up  her  hands  and  smoothed  down  her  black 
locks  in  a  bewildered  way.  The  Cure'  had 
resumed  his  seat  by  the  huge  old  fir.  His 
book  was  in  his  hand. 

Ah,  she  was  very  wicked,  she  knew.it  now. 
She  went  up  to  the  Cure;  she  put  two 
penitent  hands  upon  his  black-robed  knees. 
Her  eyes  brimmed  with  tears. 

"Dear  reverend  Father,  was  it  a  mortal 
sin?" 

35 


PART  TWO 


DEW-OF-THE-MORNING 

'  He  followed  on  the  footsteps  he  had  traced 
Till  in  high  woods  and  forests  old  he  came." 

—  Tasso. 


37 


CHAPTER    I 

ON    THE    ST.   GABRIEL 

He  had  written  to  his  friend,  Madge  Van 
Eyck — it  was  characteristic  of  him  that  his 
most  intimate  friend  was  a  girl:  "After  all, 
nature  is  best.  Nature,  nature.  Perhaps 
the  best  I  can  do  for  the  world  and  for 
myself  is  to  live,  in  some  obscure  wilderness, 
a  life  as  primitive  and  simple  as  that  of  the 
habitans  and  voyageurs  whose  little  white 
washed  cottages  sprinkle  these  green  hills 
below  the  blue  Laurentides. ' ' 

And  she  had  written  to  him  in  reply : 

"From  nature,  through  art,  to  nature 
again.  However,  Pierce,  your  restless 
spirit  will  not  long  be  satisfied  with  mere 
simplicity.  You  have  gone  through  many 
experiences,  but  those  not  the  most  vital.  I 
wonder  how  life  itself  will  meet  you." 

"Is  not  this  life?"  he  thought,  as  he  floated 
along  a  little  Canadian  stream,  a  few  miles 
above  its  foaming  shallow  rapids. 

He  had  two  companions,  one  a  young  girl, 
olive-skinned  and  black-haired,  the  other  an 
39 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

old  woman,  whose  darker  hue  showed  her  to 
be  of  unmixed  Indian  blood. 

"Monsieur  Villeaubille, "  said  Yvonne, 
"zaire  ees  my  grandmozaire's  house,  at  zait 
montagne,  far,  far.  See  you  zaire,  gardez, 
gardez. ' ' 

Her  English  was  delicious,  mixed  as  it 
was  with  French  words  and  spoken  with  the 
Canadian-French  accent,  its  quick,  dainty 
upward  inflection  seeming  to  hold  the 
thought  in  a  sort  of  deferential  suspense. 
She  had,  too,  the  trick,  common  among 
the  habitans,  of  repetition  for  the  sake  of 
emphasis. 

She  spoke  to  him  in  English,  except  when 
she  became  much  interested  in  the  conver 
sation,  or  when  the  theme  taxed  too  heavily 
her  slender  vocabulary. 

"Ze  rivaire  she  wind  much,  and  I  zink  we 
shall  haf  of  a  storm.  And  ze  courante  is 
against  us,  Monsieur  Villeaubille. ' ' 

Yvonne,  according  to  her  habit  with  other 
words,  lingered  caressingly  over  this  last 
syllable.  That  particular  prolongation  was 
pleasing  to  the  young  man. 

He    glanced   up    at    the    sky  where    the 
clouds  were  gathering  above  the  top  of  the 
Montagne     Ronde,     dark,     heavy    clouds, 
40 


ON   THE  ST.    GABRIEL 

through    which    the    heat-lightning    flashed 
fitfully. 

"I  do  not  fear  ze  storm,  I,"  said  Yvonne, 
"but  look,  grandmere,  wat  was  zait?  Some- 
zings  wite  ran  past  me,  on  ze  vater. " 

Grandmere  started,  and  looked  about  her 
uneasily. 

' '  It  was  the  moon's  reflection  in  the  stream, 
Mademoiselle  Yvonne,"  said  Willoughby. 

From  her  place  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat 
grandmere  muttered  an  unintelligible  some 
thing. 

In  the  shadow  of  the  firs  the  canoe  slid  on 
almost  noiselessly,  when  out  of  the  silence  a 
wail  quivered  in  the  air  above  their  heads. 
Yvonne  suppressed  a  cry  of  terror,  and 
crouched  down  low  in  the  canoe.  Wil 
loughby  himself  was  startled  by  a  voice  so 
human,  so  melancholy,  sounding  in  that 
solitude. 

"I  believe  it  is  a  child  crying,"  he 
exclaimed.  "Let  us  go  to  the  shore." 

"Non,  non,  nevaire,  Monsieur."  Yvonne's 
voice  trembled,  but  she  stopped  the  paddle 
with  her  hand  as  he  began  to  reverse  the 
canoe. 

"Zaire  was  not  ze  place  it  sounded;  it  was 
above  us.     We  vill  go  on,  qvick,  qvick. " 
41 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

"It  was  a  wild  loon,  perhaps,  in  passage," 
Willoughby  said.  "They  have  a  human 
cry. ' ' 

He  was  endeavoring  to  reassure  himself  as 
well  as  the  others,  for  fear  is  somewhat 
contagious. 

"It  was  not  a  loon,  nor  was  it  human," 
the  old  woman  spoke  out  in  French  for  the 
first  time. 

"Look  there!"  She  pointed  toward  a  bay 
of  the  river  that  ran  up  into  a  marshy 
meadow. 

Willoughby  looked,  but  in  the  twilight  he 
saw  nothing  except  the  white  mist  slowly 
exhaling  from  the  water  and  the  flag-flowers 
along  the  meadow-edge. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  his  curiosity  fairly 
aroused,  for  he  perceived  that  it  was  some 
thing  definite  which  his  companions  feared. 

"Tell  me,  Mademoiselle  Yvonne." 

Silence  met  his  question — the  girl  putting 
her  finger  to  her  lips  with  the  gesture  of  one 
who  dares  not  speak.  Willoughby's  vision 
became  preternaturally  acute  as  the  weird- 
ness  of  the  situation  impressed  itself  upon 
him.  Watching  the  dusky  shore,  past  which 
they  were  closely  skimming,  he  observed  a 
slight  sinuous  motion  among  the  reeds  of  the 
42 


ON  THE   ST.    GABRIEL 

margin,  and  then  something  slid  suddenly  in 
front  of  the  canoe.  It  might  have  been  an 
eel  or  a  water-rat.  At  a  little  distance  from 
them,  above  the  white  moss  of  a  bog,  a  tiny 
light  wavered.  It  might  have  been  a  fire 
fly.  Yvonne  also  saw  the  motion  and  the 
light. 

"It  is  She,"  the  girl  cried,  suddenly  bow 
ing  her  head  forward  upon  Grandmere's 
knees. 

"La  Jongleuse!  She  is  following  us 
to-night. ' ' 

"Hush,  do  not  speak  her  name,"  said 
Grandmere's  husky  voice,  "or  one  of  us 
will  be  taken. ' ' 

Again  Willoughby  asked,  and  more 
earnestly,  for  an  explanation. 

"I  vill  tell  you,  Monsieur  Villeaubille,  but 
it  is  somezings  you  vill  not  laike  of  hearing. ' ' 

Then  she  continued  rapidly  in  French, 
giving  her  version,  somewhat  modified,  of 
the  old  legend  current  two  hundred  years 
ago  among  the  Algonquins,  and  still  pre 
served  in  tradition  among  the  seignories  of 
Riviere-Ouelle. 

"She  comes  at  twilight  when  the  mist 
rises  from  the  streams;  when  the  whip- 
poor-will  cries  among  the  grasses,  then  her 

43 


THE   LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

voice  is  heard,  quavering  and  moaning  like 
a  lost  child  in  the  lonely  marshes.  She 
treads  softly  on  the  white,  spongy  moss,  and 
where  her  footprints  are  she  leaves  behind 
her  little  pools  of  water.  One  cannot  see 
her,  Monsieur  Villeaubille.  No,  no.  But 
one  can  see  the  rushes  moving  where  she 
walks  at  twilight.  For  she  gathers  the  pale- 
purple  sticky  flag-flowers  for  her  hair.  Her 
hair  is  long  and  waves  in  the  breeze.  Some 
times  one  feels  it  brush  the  cheek,  like  the 
touch  of  a  dank  water-weed.  Evil,  evil  for 
one  whom  she  touches,  Monsieur. ' ' 

"Oui,  oui,  evil,  evil,"  echoed  Grandmere's 
feeble  voice. 

"Where  the  alders  droop  and  dip  she  loves 
to  go,  and  there  she  sits  and  swings  her  feet 
in  the  water,  and  the  cold  low  fog  rises 
about  her.  The  siffleur  whistles  in  the 
woods.  It  is  a  warning.  But  the  belated 
fisherman  hears  the  splashing  of  her  feet, 
and  thinks  the  trout  are  leaping  where  the 
current  is  swift  in  the  deep  pool.  He 
pushes  his  canoe  under  .the  low-hanging 
branches,  and  next  morning  one  finds  it 
empty. ' ' 

"Oui,  oui,  empty,  empty,"  Grandmere 
echoed. 

44 


ON   THE  ST.    GABRIEL 

"One  can  never  see  her,  but  sometimes  her 
long  robe,  which  is  the  color  of  evening1, 
leaves  a  trail  of  little  stars  behind  it,  pale 
and  yellow,  among  the  sedges,  or  a  sheet  of 
bluish  light  on  the  water  where  the  scum  is 
like  cream  and  the  blue-winged  dragon-fly 
darts.  Then  we  know  She  has  been  there, 
the  Jongleuse. ' ' 

"Oui,  oui,  La  Jongleuse,"  Grandmere 
muttered. 

"And  along  the  Riviere  du  Grand  Desert, 
Monsieur  Villeaubille,  she  floats  at  night. 
The  little  boy  who  gathers  blue-berries  in 
the  swamps, — the  sun  sets  while  he  is  still 
far  from  home.  Then  he  starts  to  return, 
and  he  sees  flicker  a  little  light,  there, 
through  the  bushes,  and  he  thinks  it  is  the 
candle  in  the  kitchen-window  of  his  home. 
It  is  the  Lady  of  the  Flag- Flowers,  for  so  we 
will  call  her,  Monsieur;  we  dare  not  speak 
her  name.  He  hears  a  call,  faint,  faint. 
He  thinks  it  is  his  mother  calling  the  cows 
in  the  pasture.  He  follows  the  call,  so 
faint,  so  faint,  faint,  and  that  little,  little 
light.  In  the  morning,  one  knows  that  a 
child  is  lost. ' ' 

"Oui,  oui,  lost,  lost,"  echoed  Grandmere. 

"Her  eyes  are  blue,  blue,  like  the  flag- 
45 


THE   LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

flowers  she  twines  in  her  hair,  and  her  lips 
are  smiling  always.  She  has  many  voices, 
like  the  wind  in  the  firs,  sighing,  sighing; 
like  the  water  on  the  shore,  gurgling,  plash 
ing;  like  the  little  frogs  that  pipe  in  the 
spring;  like  the  grasshoppers,  crackling, 
clapping;  like  the  little  cricket,  lonely, 
chirping;  and  sometimes  you  can  hear  her 
moan  around  the  gray  eaves  of  an  empty 
house,  when  the  dead  trees  break  and  fall 
on  windy  autumn  evenings,  and  the  long 
mosses  swing  like  an  old  man's  beard  from 
the  decaying  hemlock. ' ' 

"Where  in  heaven's  name  are  we?" 
exclaimed  Willoughby,  glancing  at  the 
unfamiliar  outlines  of  the  landscape,  dimly 
descried  in  the  darkness. 

"It  is  the  Riviere  du  Grand  Desert,"  said 
Grandmere,  raising  her  head  with  more  life 
than  she  had  heretofore  shown. 

Willoughby,  in  his  attention  to  the  young 
girl's  words,  had  unconsciously  turned  to  the 
left  and  paddled  up  the  little  river  as  far  as 
the  white-moss  bog  that  gives  it  its  name  of 
Grand  Desert.  Over  the  low-lands,  a  pale 
light  shimmered  uncertainly. 

"Hasten  to  turn,  vite,  vtte,"  cried  Yvonne, 
clasping  her  hands  nervously. 
46 


ON   THE  ST.   GABRIEL 

"The  Lady  of  the  Flag-Flowers  has  led 
us  here. ' ' 

Back  again  in  silence  they  went,  while 
Grandmere  seemed  to  sleep  in  the  bottom  of 
the  boat. 

There  were  two  hours  more  of  paddling, 
but  hardly  a  word  was  spoken.  Grand- 
mere's  head  had  sunk  upon  her  breast. 
Yvonne's  gaze  was  fixed  earnestly  upon  the 
young  man's  face,  as  if  she  found  strength 
there.  Willoughby,  watching  the  prow  as 
he  sent  it  shooting  through  the  water,  had 
ever  before  his  eyes  the  vague,  mysterious 
image  of  the  Lady  of  the  Flag-Flowers. 

They  approached  the  hill-side  on  which 
stood  Grandmere's  little  white  house.  The 
storm,  that  had  been  threatening  for  so 
long,  seemed  almost  ready  to  burst  above 
their  heads. 

"It  is  near  midnight,"  said  Willoughby, 
as  he  turned  the  canoe  toward  the  shore. 

Then,  by  a  sudden  impulse,  he  leaned 
toward  Yvonne. 

"You  have  not  told  me  the  name  of  La 
Jongleuse,  Yvonne?" 

"Non,  non,  for  it  is  ze  bad  fortune  to 
speak  it." 

"Nothing  will  harm  you  now,  my  child," 
47 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG  -  FLOWERS 

he  answered,  as  he  sprang  from  the  boat  and 
pulled  it  up  on  the  shore. 

"If  one  speak  her  name,  and  the  hour  ees 
midnight,  then  she  vill  appear,  and  if  she 
vill  appear  it  be  a  sign  of  death." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  guide  her  to  the 
bank,  and  when  he  felt  her  fingers  within 
his  own,  a  masterful  desire  grew  strong  in 
him.  His  persuasion  should  conquer  her  fear. 

"Yvonne,  tell  me  her  name." 

He  put  his  arm  about  her  to  steady  her  as 
she  wavered  at  his  side. 

"I  shall  let  nothing  harm  you,"  and  he 
tightened  his  clasp  of  her  hand. 

"Monsieur  Villeaubille,  vy  make  you  me 
to  speak?  Her  name,  it  ees  Matshi  Skeou, " 
the  young  girl  whispered.  Her  face,  raised 
to  his,  was  illuminated  by  a  flash  of  lightning. 

Then,  in  the  intense  blackness  that  fol 
lowed,  there  was  a  deafening  noise,  an  aval 
anche  of  sound  crashing  about  them.  A 
tree  in  the  neighboring  forest  fell,  struck  by 
a  thunderbolt. 

Both  ran  to  the  canoe.  Grandmere  still 
sat  in  the  boat,  her  head  sunk  upon  her 
breast,  motionless. 

Yvonne  laid  a  hand  upon  her  shoulder, 
but  the  old  woman  did  not  raise  her  head. 

43 


ON   THE  ST.    GABRIEL 

"  Grandmere, "  she  cried,  looking  down 
into  her  face.  Then,  "Malheur!  Elle  est 
morte,  morte,"  she  shrieked.  "La  Jongleuse, 
la  Jongleuse!" 

It  was  true.  The  old  woman  was  dead. 
Willoughby  carried  the  burden  to  the 
house,  where  the  husband  and  a  married 
daughter  awaited  them. 

He  felt  conscience-stricken.  He  knew 
that  Yvonne  would  regard  him  as  responsi 
ble  for  the  calamity.  Perhaps  the  supersti 
tion  had  laid  hold  a  little  on  him.  At  any 
rate,  he  sincerely  repented  that  he  had  made 
the  young  girl  speak  the  dreaded  name.  At 
the  same  time,  he  felt  tenderly  toward  her 
in  thinking  how  she  had  yielded  to  his 
solicitation.  And  Grandmere  was  old  and 
feeble.  Such  deaths  are  not  uncommon 
among  the  very  aged. 

"What  would  you  like  to  have  me  do?"  he 
asked  her,  after  the  grandmother's  body  had 
been  tenderly  laid  upon  a  bed. 

"Shall  I  go  for  a  priest?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  reproach  in 
her  eyes,  but  her  voice  was  low  and 
sweet. 

"Yes,  Monsieur  Villeaubille,  if  you  vould 
be  so  good. ' ' 

49 


THE  LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

And  he  ran  down  to  the  shore  again,  in 
the  gathering  storm,  happy  to  do  her 
bidding. 

"I  fear  she  will  never  forgive  me,"  he 
thought,  "until  I  have  taught  her  not  to 
believe  in  her  Lady  of  the  Flag-Flowers." 

So  he  resolved  to  teach  Yvonne  Brusseau, 
to  read  with  her,  and  talk  with  her,  and 
open  her  eyes  to  the  broader  life  of  which 
now  she  knew  nothing. 

As  he  stooped  over  the  canoe,  he  heard 
light  steps  behind  him  on  the  grass.  It  had 
been  an  uncanny  experience  even  for  Wil- 
loughby,  the  night,  the  storm,  the  myste 
rious  glimpses  of  a  strange  and  solitary 
country,  the  weird  tale  of  Indian  supersti 
tion,  the  dead  woman,  who  had  stirred  not 
in  the  canoe,  Yvonne's  cry,  "La  Jongleuse, 
la  Jongleuse!" — no  wonder  that  he  started 
when  he  heard  the  unexpected  sound  behind 
him. 

No  wonder  that  a  wild  fancy  made  his 
heart  beat  quick. 

A  slight  figure  stood  beside  him.  Yvonne's 
voice  spoke. 

"Monsieur  Villeaubille,  I  vould  not  zait 
you  retourn  to  ze  village.  Ze  time  ees  too, 
too  malfortunate. " 

50 


ON   THE  ST.    GABRIEL 

"But  I  wish  to  go  if  it  will  serve  you, 
Yvonne." 

"I  haf  fear  for  you.  I  vish  zait  you  not 
go.  Gardez!  How  dark  ze  naight  makes 
itself!" 

"Yvonne,  I  fear  nothing." 

"Monsieur  Villeaubille,  tell  me  true, 
true." 

The  young  girl  stepped  up  to  him  and 
laid  her  two  hands  lightly,  one  on  each  of 
his  shoulders. 

"Had  you  not  fear  zees  momante?  Haf 
you  not  ven  you  hear  my  stepping  zink  ouf 
ze  Jongleuse?" 

Willoughby  laughed. 

"Zen  you  vill  not  go.  It  ees  ver'  bad  sign 
ven  one  hass  her  in  ze  mind. " 

Willoughby  felt  himself  swayed  by  the 
force  of  the  young  girl's  will.  He  also  felt 
himself  swayed  by  a  contrary  force  impel 
ling  him  to  go,  as  if  in  some  way  his  decision 
imported  much  to  him.  The  Lady  of  the 
Flag-Flowers  had  cast  her  spell  over  him. 
Would  she  conquer?  Would  he  yield? 

"Grandmere  ees  dead.  Ze  priest,  he  may 
come  in  ze  morning.  I  vill  be  content  of 
zait." 

Willoughby  turned  the  boat  upside  down 
51 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

• 

upon  the  shore,  and  started  back  toward  the 
house  with  Yvonne.  A  long,  low  cry  came 
waveringly  from  the  stream,  and  a  cold 
touch  was  laid  upon  his  forehead.  He 
raised  his  hand  to  brush  it  away,  but  his 
hand  met  only  the  empty  air. 

' '  Pshaw ! "  he  said  to  himself.  Then  aloud : 
"Yvonne,  did  you  feel  that  bat?" 

"No,  Monsieur  Villeaubille. " 

A  little  winding  path  led  through  the 
trees  to  the  house.  It  was  very  dark,  and 
the  branches  which  they  divided  across 
their  path  sprang  back  again  behind  them 
with  snaps  and  crackles. 

Willoughby  thought  he  heard  little  move 
ments,  now  on  this  side,  now  on  that,  some 
times  in  front,  sometimes  behind. 

"Yvonne,  are  there  three  of  us  here?" 

The  girl  disengaged  her  hand  from  his 
arm,  and  with  an  inarticulate  scream,  flung 
from  him  through  the  trees  and  vanished. 

Then  a  voice  came  to  Willoughby,  low  and 
flute-like,  whether  from  above,  from  beside, 
or  from  within,  he  could  not  distinguish. 

"You  have  yielded  through  fear  of  the 
Jongleuse.  Therefore,  you  will  fear  her 
always,  and  she  will  bring  death  to  you 
once." 

52 


ON  THE   ST.    GABRIEL 

In  blind  haste,  he  groped  his  way  to  the 
open  door  of  the  cottage,  through  which  the 
light  straggled.  As  he  sought  its  refuge 
something  white  and  wavy  disappeared  in 
the  wood.  It  might  have  been  the  slim, 
white  trunk  of  a  young  birch  that  a  flutter 
ing  bough  disclosed  and  then  concealed 
again. 

Yvonne  was  there  before  him,  kneeling 
by  her  grandmother's  side,  absorbed  in  her 
prayers.  The  old  man,  too,  was  praying, 
for  the  Hurons  were  very  devout,  and 
always  had  recourse  to  their  rosaries  in 
times  of  trouble.  There  was  no  room  for 
the  young  man  in  the  cottage,  so,  after  a 
while,  the  aunt  made  him  a  couch  on  the  hay 
in  the  little  barn,  where  he  lay,  long 
awake,  seeing  the  flashes  of  lightning 
through  the  chinks  in  the  walls,  hearing  the 
rain  fall  in  a  steady  monologue  of  patter  on 
the  tin  roof  above  him,  and  thinking  of  the 
evening's  occurrences,  sometimes  with  a 
smile,  and  sometimes  with  a  shiver. 

Grandpere,  in  his  two-wheeled  cart, 
carried  his  wife's  body  back  to  the  village 
the  next  day.  Pierce  Willoughby  went  with 
the  others  to  attend  the  services  in  the 
Huron  chapel  and  sat  beside  Yvonne. 

53 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

Then,  just  outside  the  chapel,  she  was  laid 
to  rest,  in  the  Indian  burying-ground. 

Pierce  Willoughby  was  the  only  stranger 
in  this  Huron  village  where  he  was  to 
spend  his  summer.  He  was  with  the  family 
of  Etienne  Brusseau,  the  moccasin  mer 
chant. 

Willoughby  had  finished  his  four  years  at 
a  western  university.  In  the  melee  of  col 
lege  affairs,  he  had  been  an  ardent  par 
ticipant.  Now  he  was  merely  a  straggler  on 
the  edge  of  life's  battle.  He  had  entered 
college  an  evangelical  Baptist,  with  the 
intention  of  following  his  father's  vocation, 
the  ministry.  But  since  that  time  he  had 
passed  through  as  many  phases  in  his  inner 
experience  as  he  had  taken  Double  Minors 
in  the  university  curriculum.  The  close  of 
his  university  course  had  left  him  a  liberal 
in  religion,  a  radical  in  politics,  and  at  a  loss 
how  to  conform  his  lofty  ideals  of  life  with 
the  practical  necessities  of  living. 

His  latest  theory  had  been  that  civilization 
itself  was  responsible  for  misery  and  crime, 
such  as  he  had  come  into  contact  with  dur 
ing  his  sociological  studies.  The  abolish 
ment  of  city  life,  with  its  complexities  and 
concentrations,  seemed  to  him  a  desirable 
54 


ON  THE  ST.    GABRIEL 

end.  He  had  resolved  that,  when  it  was 
possible,  he  would  put  into  practice  his  pro 
gressive  ideas  as  to  a  retrogressive  civiliza 
tion,  and  go  into  the  country,  where,  like 
Tolstoi,  he  could  live  simply,  and  labor  alike 
with  his  hands  and  his  head. 

He  had  been  called,  by  his  practical  fel 
lows,  a  visionary  and  an  extremist.  How 
ever,  it  was  the  rapid  development  of  a 
fertile  mind  and  a  susceptible  nature  that 
had  made  him  run  the  gamut  of  so  many 
changes.  He  had  not  had  the  maturity  that 
holds  an  argument  in  suspense.  In  reality, 
he  was  open  to  the  charge,  not  of  too  many 
transitions,  but  of  too  many  decisions.  His 
mind  had  grown  a  surplus  of  crops  during 
the  last  four  years,  and  needed  to  lie  fallow. 

He  had  secured,  upon  his  graduation,  a 
position  on  the  staff  of  a  western  paper, 
which  would  be  open  to  him  in  the  autumn. 
And  for  his  summer  outing  he  had  decided 
to  find  some  remote  spot,  where  he  could 
get  close  to  nature  and  to  a  primitive 
people. 

So  it  is  that,  on  a  quiet  July  evening,  we 
found  him,  with  his  Huron  companions,  fol 
lowing  the  windings  of  the  little  Canadian 
stream. 

55 


CHAPTER  II 

AN    OPEN    MIND 

It  would  have  been  difficult  to  determine 
which  learned  the  more,  the  university 
graduate  or  the  French- Huron  girl,  the 
sauvagesse,  as  she  naively  termed  herself. 
Willoughby  found  in  Yvonne  a  fascinating 
combination  of  the  two  races  from  which  she 
was  sprung.  She  had  the  quickness,  the 
light-heartedness,  the  vivacity  of  the 
French,  with  the  perseverance,  the  conser 
vatism,  and  something  of  the  subtlety  of 
the  Indian. 

Willoughby  read  English  with  her  in  the 
three  books  that  he  happened  to  have  with 
him,  Tennyson,  Marcella,  and  Shakespeare. 

The  lyric  poet  became  her  delight,  the 
novel  with  a  problem  was  a  cold  plunge  for 
her,  but  she  stood  it  bravely.  But  of  the 
great  dramatist  she  never  tired. 

"Gif  me  more  of  your  Shakespere,"  she 
would  say  again  and  again,  and  as  they  read 
together  of  the  Forest  of  Arden,  Pierce 
thought  that  he  himself  was  there. 

57 


THE   LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

"Eet  ees  so  nice,"  she  would  say.  "So 
ver'  ravissant. " 

Willoughby  had  not  expected  to  find  an 
intellectual  congeniality  in  his  pupil,  but 
even  that  was  present  to  enhance  the  pleas 
ure  of  these  "lessons."  The  lessons,  by  the 
way,  must  have  been  on  the  Meisterschaft 
system,  being  largely  conversational. 
Yvonne's  comments  on  life  and  things  were 
piquant  and  sometimes  sagacious. 

"Marcella — she  has  sorry  for  ze  poor 
peoples. ' '  Yvonne  struggled  for  self- 
expression  in  the  foreign  tongue. 

"Zhe  bring  zem  her — vat  zhe  know — for 
zey  not  well — instruct.  Zhe  regarde  zem 
for  to  know  better  how  zey  haf  ze  feeling  in 
ze  heart." 

Willoughby  listened  keenly,  for  he  knew 
that  Yvonne  was  leading  up  to  some 
definite  point. 

"You  come  here,  Monsieur  Villeaubille,  to 
regarde  les  Hurons,  n'est-ce-pas,  an'  seek 
well  vat  zey  haf  at  ze  heart.  So,  for  to  be 
— le  meilleur — instruct?  J'ai  raison,  Mon 
sieur?" 

Pierce  was  astonished  at  her  acuteness. 

"No,  no,  Yvonne,"  he  said.     "This  life  of 
yours,  though  it  is  different  from  mine,  is 
58 


AN   OPEN  MIND 

better.      The   world    would    be    happier  if 
there  were  no  cities,  and  we  all  lived  so." 

"An*  no  great  city  vaire  one  read  an' 
understan'  and  vaire  much  peoples  live?" 

Willoughby  tried  to  explain  to  her  his 
latest  theory.  She  shook  her  head  help 
lessly.  The  ultra-modernism  of  it  was  too 
much  for  hei. 

"Vat  for  you  not  life  here  all  ze  days, 
zen?"  she  inquired. 

Then  for  the  first  time  the  idea  came  to 
Willoughby  as  a  practical  possibility  that 
after  he  had  accumulated  some  modest  sum 
of  money  he  might  return  to  La  Jeune 
Vallette.  To  farm,  to  lumber,  to  trap,  to 
write — such  would  be  the  course  of  his  days. 
With  Yvonne's  presence  at  his  side,  the  life 
seemed  charming. 

Yvonne's  voice  awoke  him  from  his  day 
dreaming. 

"It  mus"  be  zait  I  go.  My  cousin  Poison 
return  zis  night  of  ze  Restigouche  contree. ' ' 

They  were  under  a  wild-cherry  tree,  in  a 
pasture  near  the  house. 

What  was  that?  A  strange  voice  called,  a 
man's  voice,  and  the  words  were  strange. 
The  liquid  Indian  syllables  rippled  on  the 
air.  Yvonne  leapt  to  her  feet  with  a  laugh. 

59 


THE   LADY   OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

"Poison,"  she  exclaimed.  Then,  to  Wil- 
loughby's  inquiring  look:  "It  is  my  Indian 
name,  —  Dew-of-the-Morning,  it  mean  in 
your  English." 

Somehow,  Willoughby  did  not  enjoy  the 
mention  of  this  cousin  whom  he  had  not  yet 
seen,  with  his  claim  upon  Yvonne's  time, 
and  his  intimate  name  for  her,  which  Wil 
loughby  had  not  even  known. 

That  evening  he  wrote  to  Madge  Van 
Eyck.  She  had  been  a  neighbor  of  his  in 
an  eastern  town,  where  his  father's  church 
had  been,  before  he  was  called  to  the  west. 
"What  has  civilization  done  for  the  modern 
girl  that  is  worth  while?"  he  wrote. 
"Yvonne  has  never  read  George  Meredith, 
never  seen  a  Poster  Lady,  never  heard 
Camille,  and  yet,  in  her  setting,  she  is  per 
fect.  ' ' 

Madge  wrote  in  reply:  "It  is  only  you, 
then,  that  spoil  the  picture.  And  are  not 
you  inconsistent,  when  'you  find  primitive 
simplicity  so  delightful,  to  try  and  educate 
it  away?" 

This  letter  of  Madge's  irritated  Pierce. 
He  took  it  from  his  pocket  one  day,  and 
read  it  for  the  third  time. 

"She  doesn't  believe  in  me,"  he  said  to 
60 


AN  OPEN  MIND 

himself.  "She  thinks  I  am  pursuing  a  fad, 
whereas  I  have  struck  at  the  heart  of  life 
itself." 

He  did  not  see  much  of  Yvonne  for  the 
next  few  days. 

Gros-Louys,  the  cousin,  hung  around  her 
when  she  was  busy  with  household  or  garden 
duties,  and  at  the  other  times  when  Will- 
oughby  had  been  accustomed  to  give  her 
lessons. 

Willoughby,  left  to  himself,  began  to  feel 
a  little  lonesome. 

"Can  it  be  possible,"  he  thought,  "that 
she  actually  prefers  a  young  hunter's  society 
to  mine?" 

He  was  young,  and  the  idea  nettled  him. 

Then  he  began  to  analyze  his  own  feelings 
and  discovered  that  he  was  jealous. 

"And  why  not?"  he  said  to  himself, 
angrily.  "She  is  pure,  beautiful,  and 
capable  of  the  intensest  feeling.  What  she 
has  not  is  the  superficial  gloss  of  society. 
That  I  do  not  want.  My  friends  will  soon 
find  out  that  my  ideas  are  not  mere  words. ' ' 

Under  the  general  thought  of  his  "friends" 
there  lurked  a  more  particular  sub-conscious 
ness. 

It  was  at  one  of  these  times  when  Yvonne 

61 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG  -  FLOWERS 

and  Gros-Louys  were  together  that  Will- 
oughby  received  a  letter  from  Madge. 

It  was  a  little  patronizing  in  tone,  twitted 
him  playfully  about  his  "Indian  princess," 
and  ended  with  an  announcement  of  her 
engagement  to  Horace  Fenton,  "whom,  of 
course,"  Madge  said,  "you must  know.  His 
people  spent  their  summers  in  Spuyten  Kill, 
and  were  our  neighbors. ' ' 

"Remember  him!"  Willoughby  laughed. 
He  remembered  Miss  Van  Eyck's  playful 
analysis  of  his  character. 

"Well,  that's  the  way  with  women,"  he 
said  aloud,  as  he  tossed  the  letter  into  his 
drawer,  where  its  mates  of  the  same  chirog- 
raphy  lay. 

He  felt  that  he  had  thus  completely 
summed  up  the  light  and  unstable  qualities 
of  the  race  of  women. 

"And  I  really  thought  at  one  time  I  loved 
her  a  little, ' '  he  said. 

He  recalled  their  long  walks  over  the  Spuy 
ten  Kill  hills  together,  and  the  evenings  on 
the  cool  piazza  at  Orchardhurst.  And  how 
she  had  clasped  his  hand  in  both  hers  when 
he  bade  her  good-bye,  and  said  that  his 
friendship  meant  much  to  her. 

"And  now  engaged  to  that  pale-haired 
62 


spook  of  an  architect,  Fenton!"  he  mut 
tered. 

The  sound  of  voices  from  the  river  path 
sent  him  to  his  window,  and  there,  picking 
her  way  from  stone  to  stone  through  the 
boggy  field  between  the  wild-rose  bushes 
and  the  tall,  purple  milk-weeds,  came 
Yvonne.  Gros-Louys  was  behind  her, 
carrying  on  his  head  his  birch-bark  canoe. 

She  was  really  a  beautiful  girl,  with  a 
fawn's  grace  and  freedom  in  her  move 
ments.  How  charmingly  she  balanced  her 
self  from  stone  to  stone,  and  what  vivacity 
in  her  quick  turns  and  glances  as  she  tossed 
back  her  sallies  at  Gros-Louys ! 

Now  her  words  came  up  to  him,  as  she 
poised  herself  on  the  stone  wall  before 
descending,  her  two  arms  outspread,  hold 
ing  the  branches  of  the  wild  cherry  tree  on 
either  side  of  her,  and  her  head,  with  its 
shining  black  topknot,  tilted  sideways 
toward  her  cousin. 

"Lui,  je  ne  1'aime  pas,  et  toi  je  ne  t'aime 
point, ' '  she  said,  with  pretty  emphasis,  and 
then  leapt  down  and  ran  into  the  house. 

"Lui,  je  ne  l'aime  pas,"  he  repeated  her 
words.  They  were  talking  then  of  love. 
The  idea  dawned  upon  him  gradually. 
63 


THE  LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

Yvonne  and  himself,  and — love.  And  she 
had  said  she  did  not  love  him.  At  that 
moment  he  began  to  love  her. 

"Et  toi,  je  ne  t'aime  point." 

He  was  glad  of  the  "point." 


64 


CHAPTER    III 

THE     PIQUE-NIQUE 

There  came  a  day  when  Yvonne  was  to 
take  the  younger  children  of  the  family  for 
a  "pique-nique"  to  the  woods.  She  chose 
the  pine  woods  below  the  Falls.  Willoughby 
was  asked  to  go,  also  Gros-Louys. 

As  it  neared  sunset,  Willoughby  suc 
ceeded  in  getting  Yvonne  by  herself.  Gros- 
Louys  had  gone  for  water  to  the  spring  that 
trickled  down  over  the  rocks  in  the  Bois-des- 
Erables.  The  children  were  exploring  the 
little  path  that  swung  dizzily  around  the 
face  of  the  cliffs  above  the  river.  Yvonne 
and  Willoughby  rested  themselves  on  the 
coppery  needles  at  the  foot  of  a  huge  old  fir. 
The  rushing  of  the  waterfall  came  soft  to 
their  ears.  The  shafts  of  pinkish  sunlight 
penetrated  sparely  the  twilight  of  the  wood. 
Yvonne's  black  head  leaned  against  the 
scarred  gray  tree-trunk,  and  Willoughby  was 
stretched  at  her  feet. 

"This  is  the  first  of  September,"  he  said. 

65 


THE   LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

"I  must  leave  these  solitudes  soon  and  work 
for  a  living. ' ' 

"And  how  ees  eet  you  vill  vork,  Monsieur? 
Vit  your  hands?" 

"No,  Yvonne,  with  my  head.  I  shall 
write  for  a  newspaper  and  be  none  the 
better  for  it.  And  people  will  read  what  I 
write  and  be  none  the  better  for  that.  But 
by  and  by  I  shall  return  here  and  live  as 
your  people  do,  and  then " 

He  looked  up  into  her  velvety  eyes,  which 
dilated  as  they  rested  on  his  face. 

"Then,  Yvonne — I  shall  want  you." 

"You  vill  vantof  me,  Monsieur?  Andvy?" 

"I  shall  want  to  be  simple,  like  you, 
Yvonne,  and  to  live  happily  as  our  ancestors 
did;  to  toil  with  the  hands  a  little,  as  your 
father  does,  in  the  field,  and  to  love,  Yvonne, 
to  love — I — to  love  you,  and  you  to  love  me, 
here  in  the  forest. ' ' 

He  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

With  his  words  the  love  in  his  heart 
expanded  to  fuller  growth. 

"Monsieur,  vous  m'aimez-au  grand 
serieux!  Moi,  Yvonne  Brusseau,  une 
sauvagesse?" 

"Oui,  ma  che'rie,  je  t'aime  avec  tout  le 
coeur. ' ' 

66 


THE   PIQUE-NIQUE 

He  rose  and  drew  her  with  him  to  her  feet. 
The  blue  eyes  and  the  black  eyes  met  and 
pledged  each  other  in  deep  draughts  of  gazing. 

' '  Alors,  Monsieur, ' '  with  a  superb  motion  of 
surrender,  she  put  her  hands  about  his  head, 
drew  his  lips  down  to  hers,  and  kissed  him. 

"Monsieur,"  whispered  Yvonne,  "I  shall 
go  vit  you  to  ze  great  ceety  and  learn  much 
tings?" 

' '  No,  my  Yvonne,  you  will  stay  here  and 
wait  for  me,  and  I  will  come  back  soon." 

"An"  what  for,  Monsieur,  I  shall  not  go 
vit  you  and  learn  ze  maniere  of  you  peoples 
an'  learn  not  be  sauvagesse  no  more?" 

"Yvonne,  you  are  like  a  violet,  one  of 
those  little  purple-lined  violets  that  we  find 
in  the  springy  moss  in  the  Bois-des-Erables. 
If  we  should  pluck  it  up  and  take  it  into 
the  city  and  plant  it  there  on  the  Rue 
Fabrique  by  the  Basilique,  would  it  bloom 
and  live?  No  one  would  look  at  it.  It 
would  die. 

"And  it  is  so  with  you,  sweet.  You 
belong  here  in  the  forest,  where  you  were 
born.  I  will  not  ask  you  to  live  my  life,  but 
I  will  live  yours. ' ' 

She  had  been  listening  to  him  intently. 
Then  she  exclaimed: 

67 


THE   LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

"Zait  ees  not  right  so.     Ze  poesie  say — " 

And     springing     away    from     him,    she 

stretched  out  her  arms  yearningly  toward 

the  western  sun  that  quivered  through  the 

trees.     Her  black  eyes  were  full  of  longing. 

"Across  ze  hills  an'  far  away 

Beyon'  zeir  utmos'  perple  reem, 
An*  deep  into  ze  dying  day 
Ze  happie  preencess  follow  heem. " 

Her  rich  voice  died  away  with  a  passionate 
quaver.  If  she  had  been  on  the  stage  one 
would  have  said  that  her  art  was  perfection. 

"I  am  ze  preencess  an'  I  follow  you,  Mon 
sieur,  so,  like  ze  poesie  you  teach  me  say. ' ' 

She  ran  up  to  him  and  put  her  arms  about 
him  pleadingly. 

"You  vill  take  me,  Monsieur?  You  vill 
not  go  way  from  Yvonne?" 

With  a  young  girl  fluttering  upon  his 
breast,  her  cheek  against  his  neck  and  melt 
ing  eyes  meeting  his  own,  what  could  a 
young  man  do?  Willoughby  thought  grimly 
of  his  father's  parsonage  fronting  the 
straight,  unshaded  street,  and  of  himself 
opening  the  iron  gate,  an  Indian  beauty 
upon  his  arm.  Then  he  thought  of  his 
bachelor  den  at  the  Hall,  and  of  the  dingy 

68 


THE  PIQUE-NIQUE 

office  down-town,  where  a  city  editor's  duties 
awaited  him.  These  three  places  refused 
to  relate  themselves  in  any  manner  to 
Yvonne  Brusseau,  whom  he  held  in  his  arms. 

Twilight  comes  early  in  a  fir-wood,  and 
already  the  dusk  began  to  creep  like  a 
haunting  dream  through  the  trees. 

"You  haf  fear,"  cried  Yvonne,  in  her 
mellow,  piercing  voice,  pushing  the  young 
man  from  her. 

"La  Dame  aux  Glai'euls  hass  come 
between  us  and  makes  you  fear.  You  haf  ze 
look  upon  ze  face." 

And,  in  truth,  Willoughby's  discomfort 
had  been  reflected  in  his  features. 

"Ze  Lady  of  ze  Flag-Flowers!  It  ees 
She,  it  ees  She,"  wailed  Yvonne. 

"Why  talk  such  folly,  Yvonne,  my  dear? 
You  do  not  believe  in  La  Jongleuse.  You 
have  told  me  so. ' ' 

"I  haf  say  zait  ven  I  am  vit  you.  Par- 
example,  one  cannot  know  all  zings.  Zere 
is  somezings,  triste,  mysterieuse,  zait  make 
you  go  an'  I — I  rest  here — an'  nevaire, 
nevaire  vill  you  be  return  for  Yvonne. ' ' 

"Do  you  love  me?"  said  Pierce,  ener 
getically. 

"Oui,  Monsieur." 

69 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

"And  I  love  you.  Then  nothing  will 
come  between  us.  I  will  return  when  I  can 
make  a  home  for  you,  and  you  will  wait  for 
me,  and  be  true  to  me?" 

vShe  did  not  answer. 

"Yvonne." 

"Oui,  Monsieur." 

"You  will  wait  for  me?" 

"I  don'  know  zait, "  she  said,  coquettishly. 

The  children's  voices  were  heard  coming, 
and  Gros-Louys'  deep  bass,  singing  a  French- 
Canadian  boating-song: 

"Par  derrier  chez  mon  per' 

Lui  ya-t-il  un  bois  joli. 
Le  rossignol  y  chant, 
Et  le  jour  et  la  nuit. 
Aurai-je  Nanette? " 

"But  you  love  me?" 

Pierce  was  urging  her  with  more  vehe 
mence  than  he  had  heretofore  shown. 

Yvonne  listened,  not  to  the  near,  but  to 
the  far-off  voice : 

"Aurai-je  Nanette? 
Je  crois  que  non. 
Aurai-je  Nanette?" 

"Yvonne!" 

70 


THE  PIQUE-NIQUE 

"Ze  to  love  an'  to  wait,  zey  be  ver'  differ 
ent  ting,"  laughed  Yvonne. 

"You  have  been  fooling  me,"  said  Pierce. 
"You  love  your  cousin,  and  you  are  going 
to  marry  him." 

"Aurai-je  Nanette? 
Je  crois  que  oui," 

came  the  far-off  voice,  nearer  now. 

"Moi!  Gros-Louys!"  Yvonne's  scornful 
laugh  pealed  through  the  wood. 

She  ran  from  him  now,  gathering  up  her 
skirts  to  leap  over  a  fallen  trunk,  on  her 
way  to  regain  her  fellow-picknickers.  They 
were  halloaing  to  her  from  the  homeward 
path. 

Her  voice  mingled  with  the  others  in  the 
familiar  French-Canadian  chorus: 

"Par  derrier  chez  mon  per' 
Lui  ya-t-il  un  bois  joli. 
Le  rossignol  y  chant 
Et  le  jour  et  la  nuit." 

Faintly  it  floated  back  to  him,  a  wistful 
melody.  And  again  Gros-Louys'  splendid, 
passionate  basso : 

"Aurai-je  Nanette? 
Je  crois  que  oui." 

7i 


CHAPTER  IV 

A     FANCY 

What  a  strange  disease  love  is!  How  it 
makes  the  feet  light  and  the  heart  full — the 
head  swim,  and  the  arms  ache!  How  the 
divergent  roads  of  life  converge  to  one,  and 
that  one  leads  to  Her !  How  the  Past  drops 
away,  and  the  Future  closes  up,  and  the 
Present  envelops  us  in  its  luminous  mantle ! 

It  was  the  day  before  Willoughby's 
departure.  Yvonne,  elusive  and  baffling 
since  the  day  of  the  "pique-nique,"  would 
not  go  for  a  walk  with  Willoughby,  as  he 
desired.  He  went  alone,  following  a  wood- 
path  that  wound  in  and  out  in  a  way  that 
wood-paths  have,  till  it  finally  emerged  in  a 
little  clearing,  where  the  Petite  Riviere 
empties  into  the  larger  stream  He  sat 
down  on  a  stone  by  the  water's  edge.  The 
moon,  like  a  great  expanding  flower, 
blossomed  through  the  fringe  of  alder  trees 
on  the  further  side  of  the  river.  Occasion 
ally  a  fish  leaped  up  from  the  still,  brown 
•water.  A  blackbird  whistled.  On  a  hill- 

73 


THE  LADY  OF   THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

ridge  in  the  west  the  taciturn  firs  stood  up, 
black  against  the  lemon -colored  sky.  Deli 
cate  spirals  of  mist  began  to  float  upward 
and  spread  out  over  the  water.  Willoughby 
thought  of  Yvonne  and  was  unhappy. 
Grimly  he  reflected  that  he  had  been  able  to 
cure  her  of  her  superstition,  but  could  not 
cure  himself  of  his  love. 

Then  a  figure,  silently  as  the  mist  comes, 
arose  on  the  other  side  of  the  Petite  Riviere. 
Still  as  a  fir-tree  it  stood.  The  pale  oval  of 
the  face  was  framed  fantastically  with  dark 
flowers. 

"Yvonne!"  called  Pierce. 

There  was  no  answer. 

Then,  "Yvonne!"  again,  was  followed  by 
a  cry  from  the  other  side,  indistinct  and 
eerie. 

"Malheur!     Malheur!     La.Jongleuse!" 

Straining  his  eyes  through  the  twilight, 
Willoughby  saw  that  the  figure  had  disap 
peared.  He  was  alone. 

What  an  elfish  fancy  of  Yvonne's!  Or 
had  he  been  dreaming? 

When  he  bade  her  good-bye  the  next 
morning,  she  looked  reproach  at  him. 

"You  do  not  understand,"  he  murmured. 
"You  cannot  go  with  me.  Why  will  you 

74 


A   FANCY 

not  be  kind?  Promise  you  will  not  forget 
me." 

"Ze  good  Saint  Antoine,  he  know  zait  I 
am  not  capable  to  forget. ' ' 

Then  the  little  train  came  puffing  in, 
odorous  of  the  wood  which  it  burned,  and 
out  of  its  one  car  the  few  passengers 
alighted.  An  excursion  party  of  French 
people  from  the  Lac  St.  Gabriel,  ten  miles 
away,  and  Poison  Gros-Louys  returned  from 
guiding  two  "riches  Americains"  to  Lake  St. 
John.  Pierce  and  the  one  other  passenger, 
a  woman  with  a  hamper  of  moccasins  for  a 
shop  in  Quebec,  stepped  aboard.  Some 
men  piled  on  more  wood  behind  the  engine, 
every  one  cried  "Au  revoir"  and  "Bon 
voyage." 

Yvonne  handed  him,  through  the  car 
window,  a  bunch  of  the  purple  fire-weed 
and  waxy  pink  dog-bane,  and  he  was  off. 
The  train  twisted  its  way  through  the  beau 
tiful  Chateaubourg  valley,  past  the  mead 
ows  powdered  white  with  daisies,  spangled 
with  buttercups,  and  ruddy  with  sorrel ;  the 
hill-sides  dotted  with  the  little  houses, 
dazzling  white  in  the  September  sunlight, 
gray-roofed,  almost  to  the  ground,  and  then 
in  sight  of  Quebec,  its  metal  roofs  sparkling 

75 


THE   LADY  OF   THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

like  gold,  its  many  steeples  pointing 
upward,  and  the  gray  citadel  crowning  all. 
And  in  his  young,  confident  way,  Pierce 
imagined  himself  returning  a  year,  two  years 
later,  still  with  the  same  ideals  in  his  head 
— as  he  never  was  to  return — and  finding 
Yvonne,  with  the  black  hair  and  the  earnest 
gaze,  basket-weaving — as  he  never  was  to 
find  her  again. 


CHAPTER  V 

YVONNE    MAKES    A    PROMISE 

During  the  year  that  followed  Willottghby's 
departure,  Yvonne  developed  from  childhood 
to  womanhood.  Her  love  for  Willoughby, 
though  only  a  sentiment,  and  a  waning  one, 
had  opened  her  eyes  to  unknown  possibili 
ties.  She  longed  for  something — she  knew 
not  what.  The  village  life  became  distaste 
ful  to  her.  She  suffered  keenly,  and  dimly 
reproached  her  lover  in  her  heart.  He  had 
taught  her  what  was  better,  and  then  left 
her  to  what  was  worse.  Though  she  did  not 
express  it  definitely,  this  was  what  she  felt. 

Yvonne  sat  so  much  by  herself,  alone, 
with  folded  hands,  that  her  mother  feared 
she  would  turn  religieuse.  She  would  not 
even  go  with  her  family  when  they  made 
their  annual  visit,  with  other  Hurons,  to 
Riviere-du-Loup. 

Her  love  for  Pierce  Willoughby  was  tinged 
with  a  shade  of  resentment.  He  wrote  to 
her  still,  it  is  true,  but  why  did  he  not  come? 
she  thought. 

77 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

And  she  wrote  to  him.  That  was  her  only 
hold  on  the  fascinating  outside  world. 

Time  moves  so  slowly  at  La  Jeune  Val- 
lette  one  does  not  realize  the  breakneck 
speed  it  has  in  a  city  editor's  office. 

Work,  unromantic  and  untheoretic,  lorded 
it  over  Pierce  Willoughby,  and  he  bowed 
tinder  the  yoke.  He,  too,  was  developing. 
There  is  nothing  that  will  knock  the  dreami 
ness  out  of  a  man  faster  than  to  slave  for  a 
managing-editor,  of  tireless  energy  and  iron 
will.  For  sheer  lack  of  time  to  think,  Wil- 
loughby  was  losing  his  idealism,  and  replac 
ing  it  with  socialism,  it  is  true,  but  of  the 
practical  and  every-day  sort. 

As  his  weekly  letters  to  her  testified,  he  had 
not  forgotten  Yvonne.  Though  his  Canadian 
summer  had  faded  away  into  dreamland,  yet 
her  image  was  clear  before  him.  He  kept 
upon  his  desk  her  picture,  taken  the  autumn 
after  his  departure  by  a  traveling  photog 
rapher.  The  likeness  was  not  good,  ex 
cept  about  the  eyes.  They  looked  straight 
out  of  the  picture  at  him  with  all  their 
old-time  depth  and  softness.  There  was, 
perhaps,  a  shade  of  sadness  in  the  ex 
pression. 

' '  I  will  go  to  her, ' '  thought  Willoughby, 
78 


YVONNE  MAKES  A  PROMISE 

"when  another  year  is  over,  and  I  can  get 
two  weeks  off. " 

But  he  did  not  say  he  was  coming,  for  he 
imagined  she  would  tire  of  his  continual 
assurances. 

He  felt  that  Yvonne  eluded  him  a  little, 
but  he  loved  her  all  the  more.  So,  thinking 
of  her,  he  did  not  think  of  other  women. 
He  had  reached  the  equilibrium  of  man 
hood.  His  heart  was  fixed  on  the  far-off 
hope. 

During  that  second  summer,  Poison  Gros- 
Louys  laid  siege  to  Yvonne,  in  the  silent, 
savage  fashion.  He  would  follow  her 
everywhere,  and  do  her  bidding  always. 
He  was  content  to  paddle  her  for  hours  on 
the  river,  rewarded  by  the  sight  of  her  in 
his  canoe,  though  she  would  not  speak  a 
word  to  him. 

"Yvonne,"  said  he,  on  one  of  these  word 
less  voyages,  "I  can  stand  this  no  longer. 
We  must  go  to  Father  St.  Clair  and  be 
married. ' ' 

"You  are  good,  Poleon, "  she  replied, 
simply,  "but  I  cannot  marry  you." 

Then  he  broke  out  tauntingly: 

"You  are  thinking  of  that  American,  so 
white-handed,  who  played  with  you.  He 

79 


THE  LADY  OP  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

will  never  come  back  again.  It  amuses  him 
to  write  to  a  little  Indian  girl.  He  is  laugh 
ing  this  moment  with  some  blue-eyed  Amer 
ican  lady,  perhaps  she  is  even  his  wife,  and 
he  is  showing  her  your  letters." 

"You  lie,"  cried  Yvonne.  "But  he  may 
show  my  letters  to  all  the  world.  I  say 
nothing  in  them.  That  is  not  why  I  cannot 
marry  you. ' ' 

"You  are  not  promised  to  him?" 

"No,  Poison,  I  am  not." 

"But  I  have  heard  you  say  to  him  that  you 
would  never  forget  him. " 

"It  is  the  truth,  my  cousin.  I  will  never 
forget  him.  An  Indian  does  not  forget. ' ' 

Something  in  her  tone  made  Poison  look 
at  her  twice. 

"Ma  cherie!"  he  exclaimed. 

It  was  the  first  term  of  endearment  he  had 
ever  used  toward  her. 

Then  he  went  on: 

"I  love  you  so  much,  Yvonne,  that  I  must 
have  you.  By  our  Blessed  Lady,  I  must. ' ' 

"How  much  do  you  love  me,  Pole'on?" 

"As    the    trout    loves    the    pool,    as    the 
ouananiche  the  rapids,  as  the  stag  the  moun 
tains — so    I    love    you,"   said    the   swarthy 
hunter.     "I  cannot  live  without  you." 
80 


"As  the  kingfisher  loves  his  prey,"  said 
Yvonne,  "so  you  love  me,  Poleon,  dead  or 
alive. ' ' 

"It  is  so,"  said  Poleon,  gravely,  "I  would 
rather  have  you  dead  than  another's. ' ' 

"That  is  wrong,"  answered  Yvonne. 
"Father  St.  Clair  says  it  is  a  mortal  sin  to 
love  anything  so. ' ' 

"If  you  promise  me,  Yvonne,"  said 
Poleon,  "I  need  not  commit  the  mortal  sin. 
For  I  know  that  if  you  promise  me  you  will 
be  true." 

"I  will  promise  you,  Poleon,  that  if  I  am 
ever  married — to  another " 

"If  you  are  ever  married  to  another!" 
broke  in  Poleon,  explosively. 

"You  will  kill  him,"  finished  Yvonne, 
quietly. 

"I  will  kill  him,"  he  repeated. 

"But  it  will  be  a  mortal  sin,"  the  girl 
added. 

Then,  "Dear  Poison,"  she  whispered,  as 
he  lifted  her  out  of  the  canoe. 

There  was  something  in  his  barbaric 
nature  akin  to  hers. 


81 


CHAPTER  VI 

BLOWS   A    FAIR    WIND 

The  second  summer  after  her  marriage 
Madge  Fenton  and  her  husband,  Horace, 
took  a  summer  outing  in  Canada.  On  their 
way  down  the  St.  Lawrence  they  spent  a 
few  days  at  Riviere-du-Loup.  It  is  a  quiet 
little  watering-place,  and  besides  the  sea 
bathing,  the  golf,  and  the  inevitable  hotel 
dances  in  the  evening,  there  is  little  to  inter 
est  American  visitors.  The  American  sum 
mer  resorter  is  not  content  with  such 
simplicity  as  is  his  Canadian  cousin. 

The  Fentons,  at  first,  found  much  amuse 
ment  in  sitting  on  the  hotel  piazza.,  quiet 
observers  of  Canadian  provincial  manners. 
The  Quebec  girl,  with  her  tightly-stayed 
undersized  figure,  fussy  clothes,  frizzled 
hair,  after  the  fashion  of  the  royal  prin 
cesses,  and  sailor  hat  tilted  forward,  is  as 
different  a  type  from  the  New  York  girl  as 
if  she  belonged  to  another  race  and  con 
tinent. 

83 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

"Have  you  heard  that  the  Indian  basket- 
makers  are  coming  here  to-day,  eh?" 

A  Quebec  lady,  with  white  cotton  gloves 
on  her  hands  and  diamonds  in  her  ears, 
addressed  Hrs.  Fenton. 

"Are  they,  indeed?"  said  Madge.  "Where 
do  they  come  from?" 

"They  are  Hurons  from  La  Jeune  Val- 
lette.  You'll  have  been  there,  eh?  There's 
a  lot  of  folks  goes  out  to  see  the  Falls  from 
Quebec.  You'll  just  be  on  your  way  to 
Quebec  now,  I  fancy?" 

The  Indians  had  their  booths  in  a  long 
lane  leading  up  from  the  beach  on  the  sandy 
street.  Daily  they  brought  out  their  wares  and 
stolidly  exposed  them  in  front  of  the  hotels. 

One  among  them,  a  young  girl,  attracted 
attention.  She  sat  on  the  floor  of  her  little 
booth,  curled  up  among  the  bright-colored 
satiny  straws  and  glistening  olive -green 
strings  of  sweet  grass.  She  was  always 
busy  with  her  plaiting  and  weaving  and 
ready  with  a  nod  and  smile  for  the  passers- 
by  whom  she  knew.  Her  brown,  delicate- 
skinned  face  was  a  perfect  oval ;  her  smile 
displayed  teeth  white  and  small  like  a 
child's;  her  black  hair  was  soft  and  smooth; 
and  her  eyes  lit  up  her  whole  expression. 
84 


BLOWS  A  FAIR  WIND 

"The  girl  would  really  be  handsome," 
said  Horace  Fenton,  "if  one  of  your  New 
York  tailors  should  get  hold  of  her." 

"She  is  a  beauty!"  exclaimed  Madge, 
warmly.  "Let's  go  talk  to  her. " 

They  discovered  that  she  talked  English, 
and  they  were  more  than  ever  charmed  by 
her  wonderful  eyes. 

Madge,  always  on  the  alert  for  new 
experiences,  pleaded  for  lessons  in  basket- 
weaving,  and  these  the  girl  promised  to  give 
her.  During  the  first  lesson  Madge  found 
out  her  name,  Yvonne  Brusseau. 

As  she  and  her  husband  were  looking  at 
some  sweet-grass  fans  of  Yvonne's  making, 
Madge  said  in  a  low  voice  to  her  husband : 

"This  is  Willoughby's  girl,  Horace, 
Yvonne  Brusseau." 

"Monsieur  Villeaubille?"  the  girl  spoke 
quickly,  looking  up  from  the  porcupine-quill 
embroidery  upon  which  she  was  engaged. 
"You  know  heem?  He  rest  vit'  us  in  my 
stepfazer's  house — eet  ees  two  years,  long 
time  ago. ' ' 

"He  is  a  friend  of  ours,"  Madge  replied. 
"We  have  often  heard  of  you  from  him." 

"Mais,"  added  Yvonne  afterwards,  when 
she  and  Mrs.  Fenton  were  strolling  through 
85 


THE  LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

the  woods  together,  "je  ne  suis  pas  sa 
blonde. ' ' 

She  used  the  St.  Gabriel  provincialism  for 
sweetheart. 

"Vous  n'en  etes  pas  capable,  petite  bru 
nette,"  laughed  back  Madge. 

Two  weeks  went  by  at  Riviere-du-Loup, 
during  which  the  friendship  between  Madge 
and  Yvonne  ripened.  Madge  learned  of  the 
Shakespeare  readings;  of  Yvonne's  convent 
schooling;  of  her  cousin  Poleon,  "le  grand 
chasseur;"  and  of  the  simple  village -life  at 
La  Jeune  Vallette. 

"How  charming  it  must  all  be!"  she 
exclaimed.  "How  I  envy  you  your  life, 
Yvonne!" 

Yvonne  laughed,  showing  her  pretty 
white  teeth. 

"So  Monsieur  Villeaubille  say.  But  he 
not  come  back  no  more.  So  you,  too, 
Madame,  but  I  see  you  nevaire  again." 

There  was  the  shade  of  a  question  in  her 
voice,  and  wistfulness  in  her  black  eyes. 

Madge  took  her  hand  impulsively. 

"If  it  be  God's  wish,  Yvonne,  we  shall 
meet  again. ' ' 

"Le  grand  Dieu,  he  not  trouble  himself 
vit  so  little  affair  as  of  mine.  Mais,  ze  good 

86 


BLOWS  A  FAIR  WIND 

St.  Antoine,  I  pray  to  heem  zait  he  send 
Yvonne  her  wishes. ' ' 

"And  what  is  that,  my  dear?" 

"I  am  capable  of  more  ssaa  »ia  "  with  a 
dramatic  gesture  over  tne  woven  tmngs 
heaped  about  them.  "I  have  visions  zat 
come  to  me,  an'  voices  zait  I  hear  like 
Jeanne  d'Arc.  But  zey  are  not  ze  blessed 
Angels.  Non,  non." 

Yvonne  laughed  again,  and  said  no  more. 

The  stay  at  Riviere-du-Loup  had  ended, 
and  Madge  and  Horace  took  the  Saguenay 
trip  to  Lake  St.  John.  Up  that  strange 
volcanic-riven  gorge  where  the  still,  black 
waters  lie,  watched  over  by  the  measureless 
silence  of  its  cliffs — and  then  the  Lake  St. 
John  country  with  its  wild  forests  and  rush 
ing  streams,  and  the  one  great  hotel  in 
explicably  modern  among  the  cleared 
lumbering-camps  along  the  shores  of  the 
mighty  lake. 

Madge  and  Horace  sat  in  the  luxurious 
dining-hall  under  the  softened  radiance  of 
electric  lights.  White-capped  maids  moved 
noiselessly  over  the  polished  floors,  carrying 
trays  of  imported  delicacies  among  the  cos 
mopolitan  assemblage  of  guests.  There 
were  Englishmen  making  the  tour  of  the 
87 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

"provinces";  Canadians,  both  French  and 
English;  and  Americans  of  every  type. 
There  was  the  sporty  New  York  alderman, 
who  had  just  exchanged  his  leathern  hunting- 
breeches  and  spiked  boots  for  an  evening 
suit ;  and  at  the  next  table  Milord  Anglais, 
who  rented  the  Great  Cascapedia  River. 

"Horace,  there  is  Professor  Willings, " 
said  Madge,  looking  toward  a  studious- 
browed  man,  who  with  two  young  men 
occupied  a  table  near  them. 

"They  say  he  has  a  lodge  on  the  Mistassini 
River  where  he  lived  alone  for  a  summer, 
talking  only  with  Indians  and  eating  frogs' 
legs  and  crows'  meat." 

"And  there  is  a  broker,  I  know,"  said 
Horace,  "who's  on  the  New  York  Exchange. 
He's  got  a  good  coat  of  tan,  though." 

"And  that  stately  gentleman  there,"  said 
Madge,  "has  been  pointed  out  to  me  as  the 
Bishop  of  Labrador,  whose  diocese  includes 
this  Lake  St.  John  country. 

"No,  I  will  not  have  bisque  glacee. " 
This  to  the  maid.  "Bring  me  blueberries 
and  cream." 

"How  strange  it  seems,  Horace,  to  be 
refusing  bisque  glace"e  where  there  are  bears 
chained  behind  the  house ! ' ' 


BLOWS  A   FAIR  WIND 

"And  playing  golf ,"  said  Horace,  "within 
shouting  distance  of  Montagnais  wigwams." 

"And  a  caribou -hunt  in  the  morning," 
added  a  young  man  at  their  table,  "and  come 
home  to  lead  a  cotillion  in  the  evening. ' ' 

To  fish  for  the  ouananiche  in  the  pools 
about  the  Grand  Discharge  and  to  shoot  the 
rapids  of  the  Saguenay  in  a  canoe  are  the 
two  events  of  a  visit  to  Lake  St.  John. 

Madge  was  an  enthusiastic  sportswoman, 
and  the  ouananiche  is  the  king  of  game  fish. 
The  lithe  curves  of  its  satiny  body  as  it  leaps 
in  silvery  ellipses  again  and  again  from  the 
water  in  a  dazzling  shower  of  spray,  this 
sight  alone  is  recompense  for  the  disap 
pointment  that  awaits  the  amateur  angler 
when  the  spirited  creature  jumps  from  the 
hook  almost  at  the  boat's  rim  and  drops  a 
plumb  line  downward,  a  glistening  streak  to 
depths  unknown. 

"And  now  for  the  rapids!"  said  Madge,  as 
she  and  her  husband  stood  on  the  purple 
rocks  that  heap  the  shore  of  the  great  lake 
about  the  Island  House. 

"I  have  hired  two  Montagnais,"  said 
Horace,  "who  are,  I  believe,  specially 
skilled  with  the  canot  d'e'corce,  and  will,  if 
any  one  can,  take  us  through  alive." 


THE   LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

"How  gruesome  you  are!"  exclaimed 
Madge,  clearing  at  a  bound  a  particularly 
wide  chasm  between  two  rocks,  with  the 
glorious  sense  of  freedom  that  a  woman  in  a 
short  skirt  enjoys. 

"But  it's  dangerous,"  insisted  Horace, 
whose  caution  was  greater  than  his  wife's, 
"and  I  value  my  life,  and  yours,  too,  dear." 

"And  where  would  the  pleasure  be  with 
out  the  danger?"  asked  Madge,  surveying 
her  husband  from  her  vantage-point  of 
higher  rock.  "Look,  there  are  our  guides. 
How  silent  these  Montagnais  are!  I  wish 
they  would  chatter  a  bit.  One  would  feel 
more  cheerful." 

They  climbed  down  the  rocks  to  the  nar 
row  beach  where  they  were  to  embark. 
Two  canoes  were  there,  each  with  two 
Indians. 

"But  we  are  to  go  in  the  same  canoe," 
said  Madge. 

"Non,"  muttered  one  of  the  guides. 
"Much  danger.  Better  one.  Not  take 
three,  one  canot. " 

He  shook  his  head  and  looked  loweringly 
at  the  other  three  Indians.  All  four  shook 
their  heads,  muttering,  "Non,  non. " 

'I    will    not   be   separated    from    you," 
90 


BLOWS  A  FAIR  WIND 

exclaimed  Madge.  "Think  how  I  should 
feel  if  you  should  be  caught  by  the  rapids, 
and  I  should  go  safely.  We  must  be 
together." 

Horace  laughed  at  her  folly,  but  signified 
her  wish  to  the  Indians.  Two  of  them 
turned  away,  as  if  washing  their  hands  of  so 
foolhardy  a  proceeding.  Their  countenances 
were  indicative  of  deep  disgust. 

"Three,  one  canot.  Too  much,"  said 
Francois,  the  Montagnais  whom  Fenton  had 
first  engaged. 

"I  take  you — I "  said  the  other,  and 

then  he  said  something  in  Indian  to  his  com 
panion. 

After  a  deal  of  talk  the  matter  was  finally 
arranged,  and  Madge  and  Horace  settled 
themselves  in  the  bottom  of  the  canoe,  with 
an  Indian  at  bow  and  stern  of  their  frail  bark. 

It  shot  out  over  the  still  waters  of  the  lake 
among  the  many  islands  that  cluster  about 
the  Grande  Decharge. 

In  the  pools  some  of  their  fellow-guests  of 
the  night  before  were  casting  the  fly  for  the 
ouananiche.  They  passed  the  Remous  de 
la  Vache  Caille,  pools  where  the  churned 
froth  from  the  rapids  stands  in  curdled 
creamy  clots  on  the  dark  water. 
91 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

1 '  Good  luck  to  you, ' '  shouted  their  fellow- 
diner,  whipping  his  fly  line  into  the  froth  of 
the  Remou. 

They  looked  back  to  see  an  ouananiche 
glistening  in  its  momentary  spring,  five  feet 
above  his  taut-held  line. 

Excitement  and  suspense  were  in  the  air. 

They  involuntarily  dropped  their  voices  to 
a  whisper,  and  Madge  grasped  her  hus 
band's  hand. 

Frangois  and  Pierrot,  their  two  Indians, 
knelt  like  posts  at  either  end  of  the  canoe, 
their  paddles  keeping  time  with  each  other 
in  strong  dip  and  turn. 

Now  they  heard  the  roar  of  the  rapids 
where  the  lake  pours  out  down  its  steep 
incline  into  the  swirl  and  spume  of  the 
river. 

Madge  tightened  her  grasp  of  Horace's 
hand. 

"Do  you  hear  it?"  she  whispered. 

She  caught  her  breath  with  the  anguish  of 
intense  anticipation. 

Pierrot,  in  the  stern,  looked  for  a  moment 
backwards  at  his  comrade,  who  paddled  with 
his  face  down-stream.  They  knelt  back  to 
back.  His  mouth  was  set  like  a  vise,  and  the 
perspiration  stood  in  beads  on  his  upper  lip. 
92 


BLOWS  A   FAIR  WIND 

He  was  facing  up-stream  again  in  an 
instant,  but  the  canoe  had  rocked  a  little  with 
the  slight  twist  of  his  body  in  turning. 

"Le  diable!"  muttered  Francois  in  the 
prow,  his  broad  shoulder  and  back  immov 
able  as  if  made  of  wood. 

Now  the  dark  tide  carried  them  more 
swiftly,  and  Madge  could  see  ahead  the 
white  grinning  of  the  rapids  as  they  snarled 
among  rocks  and  shallows. 

She  saw  how  much  depended  on  the  skill 
and  steadiness  of  the  canotiers.  An 
instant's  hesitation  would  dash  them 
against  the  rocks ;  a  wrong  turn  of  the  pad 
dle  and  they  would  be  swerved  round  and 
engulfed  by  the  furious  current.  Keep  the 
prow  pointed  straight  and  sure  through  the 
one  narrow  channel,  foam  and  rage  though 
it  might,  and  they  would  be  carried,  with 
terrible  speed,  but  safely,  over  the  rapids, 
down  to  where  the  waters  flowed  more 
smoothly  between  widening  shores. 

A  canoe  containing  one  Indian  was  follow 
ing  close  behind  them  in  their  course. 

He  was    a    fellow  of    magnificent  build, 
square- jawed,  and  holding  his  head  erect  as 
few  of  the  Montagnais  do.     He  handled  his 
canoe  like  a  born  voyageur. 
93 


THE   LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

Horace  watched  him,  while  Madge,  sitting 
opposite,  had  her  eyes  painfully  dilated, 
watching  the  smother  of  foam  into  which 
they  seemed  about  to  plunge. 

Now  they  were  in  it,  the  thick  spray 
tumbling  over  them,  dashed  into  their  faces, 
and  pouring  down  their  oil-skin  coats,  as  the 
fragile  bark  trembled  in  the  fierce  current. 
They  were  blinded  with  the  fleecy  foam  that 
enveloped  them. 

Madge  did  not  scream  when  she  felt  her 
self  seized  by  the  superhuman  hand  of  the 
whirlpool.  She  was  too  terrified  for  that. 
Her  heart  stood  still.  But  a  worse  sensation 
was  to  follow.  She  did  not  know  till  after 
ward  that  Pierrot  did  what  every  Montagnais 
shudders  even  to  dream  of  by  the  campfire 
at  night — he  lost  his  paddle!  Fatal  loss! 
The  light  canot  d'e*corce  was  jerked  out  of 
its  channel. 

"Perdu!"  shouted  Pierrot,  in  a  terrible 
voice. 

The  canoe  was  held  for  an  instant  atop  of 
the  furious  seethe,  poised  by  a  chance 
equilibrium  of  currents  that  contended  with 
each  other  for  possession  of  the  treasure. 
Madge  knew  that  there  had  been  an  acci 
dent  by  the  sudden  change  in  the  boat's 

94 


BLOWS  A   FAIR  WIND 

motion.  She  seemed  wrapped  about  with  a 
foamy  veil  of  rainbow  light  and  tumultuous 
sound.  All  conscious  thought  and  memory 
slipped  away  from  her.  She  was  an  unborn 
soul  in  a  crystal  sphere  of  calm  within  this 
circle  of  wrath.  And  the  unborn  soul 
wondered.  That  was  all. 

She  could  never  have  guessed  how  long 
this  crystal  moment  lasted.  The  sphere 
broke  and  in  a  kind  of  dream  she  saw  her 
self  floating  out  upon  the  dark  smoothness 
of  a  wider  stream.  The  rapids  were  behind 
them. 

They  now  drew  up  on  the  shore.  The 
exhausted  Indians  flung  themselves  upon 
the  beach.  All  their  ruddy-copper  hue  had 
left  them,  and  they  were  yellow  pale. 

Horace  took  Madge  into  his  arms  and 
held  her  there.  She  quivered  from  head  to 
foot. 

She  never  knew  till  afterward  how  it  had 
all  happened;  how  when  Pierrot  had  lost 
his  paddle  and  the  helpless  boat  was  poised 
across  the  current,  ready  to  be  engulfed,  the 
Indian  behind  them,  quick  as  lightning,  had 
flung  them  his  paddle,  far  out  down  the 
stream,  and  the  desperate  Pierrot  had 
reached  for  it,  picked  it  up,  and  straightened 

95 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

the  canoe  with  a  few  powerful  strokes,  and 
so  their  lives  were  saved. 

And  then  the  brave  fellow  had  leaped 
clear  of  his  spinning  canoe  out  into  the 
swift-running  stream. 

There  had  been  fishermen  on  the  shore 
who  watched  him  as  he  disappeared  from 
view  in  the  black  depths  of  the  water. 

How  smoothly  it  seemed  to  flow,  the 
black  water !  But  the  awful  depth,  and  the 
strength  of  the  current,  only  the  Indian 
voyageur  would  know. 

Here  it  was  that  the  young  Englishman, 
Talbot,  made  his  mad  venture  last  year  on 
a  reckless  bet  with  his  comrades.  The 
smooth  stillness  of  the  upper  current  has  a. 
sinister  quiet  when  one  reflects  on  the  arms 
underneath  that  suck  and  draw  down.  He 
was  never  seen  again.  Only  a  Montagnais 
Indian,  who  mended  his  canoe  a  hundred 
miles  down  on  the  lower  Saguenay,  reported 
afterward  that  on  that  same  day  he  saw  a 
white  hand  up-flung  from  the  river — just 
that  and  nothing  more. 

But  on  this  day,  the  swimmer's  head 
appeared  above  the  water  again,  and  the 
desperate  battle  was  waged — man  against 
demon. 

96 


BLOWS   A  FAIR  WIND 

For  long  it  seemed  that  he  could  not  with 
stand,  for  ever,  as  he  made  for  the  shore, 
the  demon-water  pulled  him  down — down — 
down-stream.  But  ever  he  set  his  face  like 
a  gladiator's  and  struck  for  the  shore  again. 
So  that  to  the  on-lookers  he  seemed  to  be 
motionless,  there  where  his  head  first 
appeared  above  the  water. 

"Bravo — Bon  gargon!"  they  shouted  to 
him.  But  the  demon-water  roared  and  hissed 
in  his  ears  and  drowned  the  human  cry. 

Yes !  He  moves !  He  gains  the  shore — 
by  inches.  Nearer  and  nearer — but  the 
strokes  of  his  arms  are  feebler,  and  the 
forehead  and  eyes  barely  show  above  water. 
And  still  the  demon  is  strong  and  tugs  at 
him. 

His  senses  have  grown  benumbed.  The 
keen  desire  for  life  is  dulled.  The  water 
roars  in  his  ears. 

"What  use?  Give  it  up.  Down  I  go — 
away  I  go — how  good  to  struggle  no  more ! 
Let  the  demon  have  me ' ' 

Surely,  surely  he  will  not  fail  now.  Now, 
at  the  last  moment,  when  he  is  so  near  the 
shore.  So  near — he  cannot  dream  how  near 
— three  boat-lengths  and  they  can  reach 
him  with  the  rope. 

97 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

Some  one  starts  to  sing — the  chasseur  who 
ran  back  for  a  rope.  Why  should  he  sing, 
when  a  brave  man  meets  his  death? 

"  Via  1'bon  vent, 
Vial'  joli  vent, 
Ma  mie  m'appelle. " 

Very  loud  and  clear  it  floats  out  over  the 
water,  the  old  familiar  song. 

"Blows  a  fair  wind, 
Blows  a  fine  wind, 
And  my  love  calls  me." 

Ah,  the  swimmer  has  not  gone  under! 
There  he  is  again,  and  swimming  manfully. 

"Via  1'bon  vent, 
Via  1'joli  vent, 
Via  bon  vent, 
Ma  mie  m 'attend. " 

The  American  girl  in  the  Scotch  Tarn 
o'Shanter,  who  stands  by  her  ruddy-faced 
father  watching  the  scene,  hides  her  face 
on  his  corduroy  coat,  and  cries. 

They  are  pulling  him  in  now.  He  has 
clung  to  the  rope. 

4 '  Blows  a  fair  wind, 
Blows  a  fine  wind, 
Blows  a  fair  wind, 
And  my  love  waits  for  me. " 


CHAPTER   VII 

"AH,  AH!  CECILIA" 

Fenton  hunted  him  up  that  evening  and 
brought  him  over  to  the  Island  House.  The 
ladies  crowded  round  him  with  butterfly 
compliments. 

"C'est  r'en,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  all, 
turning  his  keen  eyes  and  slow  smile  upon 
the  women.  "Je  1'ai  fait  pour  m'  plaisir." 

Fenton  paid  him  a  price  for  the  canoe, 
which  they  said  was  a  beautiful  one  of  his 
own  building.  It  had  been  swept  down  the 
rapids  and  dashed  to  pieces  like  an  egg  shell 
on  the  rocks.  He  received  the  money  with 
out  a  demur.  His  manners  were  royal  in 
their  gravity. 

"And  your  name?"  asked  Madge,  ear 
nestly. 

He  looked  her  full  in  the  eyes,  as  few 
Montagnais  will  do.  This  square  look,  with 
the  erect  carriage  of  the  head,  Madge 
noticed.  But  he  was  not  a  Montagnais,  as 
she  learned  from  his  answer. 

99 


THE   LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

"Poleon  Gros-Louys,"  he  answered,  "a 
Huron." 

He  still  looked  at  Madge,  for  he  liked  the 
gray  sincerity  of  her  glance. 

"Then  you  are  Yvonne  Brusseau's 
cousin,"  she  exclaimed,  "and  live  at  La 
Jeune  Vallette. " 

"Oui,  oui,  Madame,"  he  answered,  the 
slow,  strong  smile  again  taking  possession  of 
his  face. 

"That  is  not  enough,"  said  Madge  to  her 
husband,  looking  at  the  bills  which  Poleon 
held  crushed  in  his  hand.  "Our  lives  are 
worth  more  than  that." 

"What  would  you  like?"  said  Fenton  to 
Gros-Louys.  "Name  me  anything  and  you 
shall  have  it,  if  it  is  within  my  power. " 

The  Indian  did  not  answer  for  a  minute. 
He  was  reading  Fenton's  face.  Then  he 
looked  at  Madge,  and  said,  speaking  French : 

' 4 1  will  take  a  day  or  two,  and  after  name 
what  is  in  my  heart,  Madame." 

For  when  he  was  asked  to  name  his  desire 
his  first  thought  had  been  Yvonne,  his  Dew- 
of-the-Morning. 

The  Fentons  took  Gros-Louys  for  guide, 
and  made  the  week's  trip,  by  forests,  streams 
and  portages,  from  Lake  St.  John  to  La 


"AH,   AH!   CECILIA" 

Jeune  Vallette.  It  was  a  new  experience 
for  them  both.  The  primeval  woods  are  a 
revelation.  City-bred  "people,  [whose  souls 
are  still  open  to  wind  and  star,  are  taught  by 
such  green,  silent  days  and  vaulted  nights 
that  half  of  life  has  not  been  understood 
before,  and  the  other  half  misunderstood. 

When  Madge  sat  on  the  "gallerie"  of 
Etienne  Brusseau's  house,  a  star-lit,  autumn 
evening,  after  her  arrival,  with  Yvonne  by 
her  side,  she  was  wiser  and  younger  than 
she  had  ever  been  before. 

Horace  sat  on  the  steps  with  Etienne  and 
Gros-Louys,  smoking  and  exchanging  experi 
ences  with  them,  like  the  cosmopolitan  that 
he  was.  Etienne  told  of  the  porpoise-fish 
ing,  and  the  loups-marin  at  Riviere-Ouelle 
when  he  was  younger.  Gros-Louys,  slowly, 
between  long  whiffs  at  his  pipe,  told  of  the 
great  elk  he  had  shot  after  two  weeks'  hunt 
ing  alone  on  the  northern  ranges  of  the 
Laurentides. 

Within,  from  the  cave,  came  sounds  of 
tumultuous  mirth.  "Charle  1'Acadien" 
was  there,  a  vagrant  Acadian  youth  who 
picked  up  a  precarious  living  from  village  to 
village  by  the  exercise  of  nimble  feet  and  a 
nimble  tongue.  Rat-tat-tat,  came  the  sound 


THE   LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

of  Aimers  broomstick  on  the  floor  of  the 
cave,  while  1'Acadien  kept  time  in  one  of  his 
endless  elaborate  dances.  At  each  new 
figure  in  the  dance,  shrill  peals  of  laugh 
ter  ran  around  the  circle  of  little  Brus- 
seaus,  within  which  he  whirled.  Still  the 
relentless  rat-tat-tat  went  on,  the  sweat 
streamed  from  the  1'Acadien's  broad,  pasty 
face,  the  light  feet  twirled  and  twisted,  the 
children  shrieked,  and  Madame,  sitting  by 
the  great  wood-filled  stove,  with  her  baby- 
boy  in  her  arms,  smiled  absently  as  she 
crooned : 

"Le  troisieme  jour  de  mai 
Que  barrai-je  a  ma  mie. " 

Father  St.  Clair  came  into  the  yard,  find 
ing  his  way  carefully  in  the  darkness  among 
the  tall  trees. 

"Dieu  vous  b6nisse,  mes  enfants, "  he 
said,  as  the  men  rose  at  the  foot  of  the 
steps. 

He  climbed  the  steep,  high  steps  slowly, 
and  sat  down  beside  Yvonne  and  Madge. 

"So  this  is  the  American  lady  Yvonne  has 
told  me  of,"  the  priest  said,  giving  Madge 
his  satiny  hand-clasp. 

"Bien venue,  Madame." 


"AH,   AH!   CECILIA" 

He  looked  at  her  searchingly.  Her  face 
was  illumined  by  the  lamplight  that  shone 
through  from  the  little  parloir.  He  noted 
the  unworldly  mouth,  and  the  child-like 
gray  eyes  that  were  black  in  that  half  light. 

"One  to  be  trusted,"  he  thought,  "and 
who  has  never  known  sorrow." 

"An-na-o-ta-ha,"  said  Gros-Louys  from 
below,  in  a  voice  unusually  low  and  tender. 
"Descend.  I  would  speak  with  you." 

The  French-Canadian  priest  and  the 
American  woman  talked  together  all  that 
evening,  while  the  stars  waxed  and  waned 
in  the  black  spaces  of  the  great  sky,  and  the 
chill  September  wind  sighed  in  the  tops  of 
the  tall  pines. 

Madge  drew  her  furs  about  her  and  led 
the  ;  Abbe  along  with  tactful  question  and 
comment.  She  learned  the  simple  history 
of  La  Jeune  Vallette ;  of  the  fete  du  riviere 
and  the  danse  dramatique ;  of  the  Brusseaus ; 
the  Gros-Louys,  the  Sioiiis,  and  the  Tahou- 
renche*s;  of  the  First  Communion;  the 
masses;  the  Sisters  of  Marie-Joseph;  the 
Maison  du  Roi,  where  his  people  had  lived 
for  hundreds  of  years.  He  even  vaguely 
outlined  his  own  life  to  her. 

"But  one  must  efface  one's  self, "  he  broke 
103 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

off.  "I  live  in  my  people  and — my  books. 
One  need  not  often  think  of  one's  self  when 
one  has  those,  Madame.  The  Holy  Church 
is  my  earthly  love." 

Leaning  forward,  he  smiled  sadly  into  the 
face  of  the  happy  young  wife. 

She  smiled  back,  wonderingly. 

Dear  Abbe",  if  you  had  won  your  earthly 
love,  where  would  the  Holy  Church  have 
been? 

Yvonne  and  Poison  paced  up  and  down  on 
the  short-trodden  grass  among  the  oaks  and 
pines. 

"An-na-o-ta-ha,"  said  Poleon,  "the  Amer 
ican  Monsieur  will  do  what  I  wish  in  return 
for  the  aviron  I  sent  him.  What  is  your 
wish,  that  I  may  ask  it  of  him?" 

Yvonne  took  Poleon's  great  hands  in  her 
small  brown  ones,  and  danced  round  him. 

"Mon  per*  n'avait  fille  que  moi 
Encor  sur  la  mer'  il  m'  envoie. 
Sautez,  mignonne,  C6cilia, 
Ah,  ah!  Cecilia, 
Ah,  ah!  Cecilia." 

She  sang  this  madly,   dancing  back  and 
forth  in  front  of  him  as  far  as  the  limit  of 
his  arms  would  let  her. 
104 


"AH,   AH!   CECILIA" 

"Why  don't  you  answer  then,  ma  mie?" 
he  asked,  drawing  her  up  to  him  with 
brusque  emotion  and  looking  down  closely 
into  her  little  face,  vague  and  pale  in  the 
starlight. 

"And  have  I  not  answered  then,  big 
cousin, "  she  replied,  calling  him  by  the  name 
he  did  not  like.  She  slipped  out  of  the  girdle 
of  his  arms,  but  still  held  him  by  the  finger 
tips. 

"Encor  sur  la  mer'  il  m'  envoie. " 

"I  want  to  go  with  the  American  Madame, 
Poleon,  far  away  to  her  place,  and  learn 
what  La  JeuneVallette  will  never  teach  me." 

"And  then ?"  he  said,  almost  roughly, 

drawing  her  up  to  him  again. 

"Ah!  bah!  Je  ne  sais. "  She  shrugged 
her  shoulders. 

"Then — no.  I  will  ask  him  some  other 
thing.  A  big  canot  d'ecorce  for  myself,  or 
a  beautiful  picture  of  St.  Anne  for  Tante 
Marie,  your  mother. " 

"You  are  cruel,  Poleon.  You  torture  me. 
Why  did  you  ask  me  my  wish  at  all.  Great 
bear,  with  the  big  paws!  Don't  crush 
me  so!" 

"It  is  you  that  are  cruel,  An-na-o-ta-ha, 
105 


THE  LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

tna  mie.     To  ask  for  your  one  wish,  to  go  far 
away. ' ' 

"Ah,  but  you  will  let  me  go. "  She  clung 
to  him  and  smoothed  his  bronze  cheek 
caressingly : 

"One  little  wish  like  that  for  Yvonne." 

"And  what  for  Poleon?"  he  asked. 

' '  I  will  love  you, ' '  she  breathed. 

"Mignonne!" 

His  strong  arms  enfolded  her  again. 

"And  marry  me?" 

The  young  girl  cast  a  long  look  forward 
into  the  future. 

"When  I  return  to  La  Jeune  Vallette, " 
she" said,  simply. 

In  this  manner  was  Yvonne's  promise 
made. 

In  a  few  days  more  arrangements  were 
completed  between  the  Fentons  and  Brus- 
seaus.  The  expense  of  Yvonne's  education 
was  to  be  borne  by  her  parents  and  by 
Poison,  who  always  aided  the  family  of  his 
aunt,  so  called,  with  whom  he  had  always 
lived. 

Madge  left  it  in  this  way  for  the  sake  of 
their  self-respect,  though  she  anticipated  that 
the  cultivation  of  this  whim  of  hers  would 
draw  upon  her  own  resources. 
106 


"AH,    AH!   CECILIA" 

At  last  they  were  on  the  deck  of  the  Mon 
treal  steamer.  Yvonne,  dressed  as  a  Val- 
lette  Huronne  had  never  before  been,  stood, 
pale,  flashing-eyed,  till  Poison  and  her 
mother  left  the  steamer.  With  a  sigh  of 
relief  she  turned  away  toward  Point  Levis, 
while  her  kinspeople  still  waved  adieu  to  her 
from  the  pier.  In  the  mind  of  that 
untutored  child  the  wildest  tumult  had 
arisen  No  bourgeois  dreams  of  happiness 
floated  before  her:  a  fine  house  like  those 
she  had  just  seen  that  morning  on  the  St. 
Louis  road ;  clothes  such  as  the  ladies  wore 
who  drove  out  to  see  the  Falls  in  the  sway 
ing,  white-cushioned  caleches;  rings  like 
those  in  the  windows  along  the  Rue  Fab- 
rique.  Of  such  stuff  was  not  the  vision 
that  floated  before  Yvonne.  It  was  some 
thing  indefinable,  but  without  it  life  was 
empty. 

She  stood  on  the  deck  till  the  boat  had 
steamed  past  the  promontory  and  citadel, 
past  Wolfe's  Cave,  and  the  long,  low 
curves  of  Sillery,  past  Cap  Rouge,  and 
had  left  behind  all  that  might  have  been 
familiar  to  her.  Then  she  turned  to  Madge 
Fenton,  who  sat  in  a  camp-chair  watching 
her. 

107 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG- FLOWERS 

"I  am  ver'  bad,"  she  cried,  impulsively. 
" Already  I  forget  myself  of  my  friens  an' 
not  say  for  zem  au  revoir.  It  ees  for  I  am 
raveesh'  by  wan  dream." 


T03 


PART   THREE 


OPEN     WINGS 


;  Thirst  for  the  unknown,  passionate  love  of  life." 

—  A  mi'et's  Journal. 


109 


CHAPTER   I 

THE  WINNING-OUT  OF  WILLOUGHBY 

Willoughby  was  in  the  midst  of  his  first 
campaign.  Every  honorable  means  had 
been  employed  since  his  nomination  to  make 
his  election  sure.  Yet  machine  influence  is 
too  insidious  to  be  circumvented  by  any  but 
the  most  experienced  politician.  Could  he 
rely  upon  the  people  for  his  support  without 
the  aid  of  the  leaders?  This  question  was  on 
his  mind  as  he  prepared  for  his  evening's 
work  on  the  platform. 

He  was  on  the  point  of  setting  out  for  the 
Independent  meeting  when  a  card  was 
brought  to  him.  Willoughby  was  surprised. 
Compromise?  Could  it  be  that  this  man 
recognized  the  strength  of  the  new  move 
ment?  The  great  man  entered.  "Tommy" 
was  a  man  of  few  words,  and  came  at  once 
to  the  point. 

"Willoughby,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  make 
a  deal  with  you.  I've  watched  your  cam 
paign  so  far,  and  know  pretty  well  the  pull 
you  have  with  this  reform  push.  But  let  me 


THE   LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

tell  you  right  here,  you  can't  drive  that  man 
Mcllhaney  out  of  the  council.  You've  got 
a  strong  pull  on  the  whitewashers,  but  they 
haven't  got  the  stuff  to  put  up.  Let  me  tell 
you  right  here,  it'll  take  hard  cash  and  lots 
of  it  to  turn  down  Jim  Mcllhaney." 

Tommy  bit  the  end  off  his  cigar  viciously, 
and  cast  a  knowing  look  across  the  table 
at  Willoughby : — 

"See?" 

Willoughby  did  "see,"  but  said  nothing. 
Then  Tommy  continued,  laying  before 
Willoughby  the  scheme  by  which  the  latter 's 
campaign  might  be  won,  and  no  harm  to 
any  one.  Tommy,  having  had  his  say,  rose, 
planting  his  feet  widely  apart,  and  thrust 
his  thick,  beringed  hands  into  his  trousers- 
pockets.  He  looked  at  Willoughby,  waiting 
for  an  answer. 

Willoughby  was  perplexed.  Here,  he 
knew,  was  a  certain  method  of  winning  out. 
As  the  prospect  of  his  election  by  aid  of  the 
gang  arose  in  his  mind,  his  doubt  increased 
as  to  his  ability  to  win  without  their  aid. 
Of  course,  he  was  playing  into  the  hands  of 
a  bad  man,  for  that  "Tommy"  had  some 
private  ends  to  be  served,  Willoughby  was 
certain.  But  as  far  as  he  knew,  the  New  City 


THE  WINNING -OUT   OF  WILLOUGHBY 

proposition  was  a  good  one,  and  would 
benefit  the  working  people  back  of  the 
yards.  If  Jim  Mcllhaney  won  out,  the  prop 
osition  would  fall  through,  and  there  would 
be  one  boodler  more  on  the  council — 
whereas,  with  him,  Willoughby,  as  alderman 
from  the  Fifteenth  ward,  something,  if  not 
much,  could  be  accomplished  toward  cleans 
ing  municipal  politics.  As  a  step  toward 
political  preferment,  Willoughby  did  not 
value  his  victory.  Still,  the  case  was  not 
clear. 

Upon  his  return  from  the  campaign  meet 
ing,  Willoughby  found  a  letter  on  his  desk 
with  the  pinkish  Canadian  stamp  upon  it. 
He  sank  into  an  easy-chair  and  put  his  feet 
up  on  the  railing  of  the  corpulent  black- 
bellied  stove  that  in  winter  heated  their 
plebeian  chambers.  Pfeffer,  his  fellow- 
socialist,  was  sleeping  heavily  in  the  other 
room. 

Willoughby  knew  that  the  letter  was  from 
Yvonne  Brusseau.  He  held  it  in  his  hand 
and  thought.  His  love  for  her  had  come  at 
a  transitional  time  in  his  character.  Many 
of  the  fluctuating  currents  of  his  life  had 
since  then  set  in  an  opposite  direction  from 
that  towards  which  they  had  formerly 
113 


THE   LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

tended.  But  through  them  all,  like  the 
steady  stream  that  swings  below  the  ocean- 
tides,  had  flowed  his  devotion  for  Yvonne. 
In  her,  he  had  found,  or  dreamed  that  he 
found,  the  ideal  love  of  his  heart.  He  knew 
that  she  had  not  pledged  herself  to  him,  but 
curiously  enough,  he  felt  himself  pledged  to 
her.  Modern  exigencies,  inexplicable  to  the 
French- Huron  girl,  had  kept  him  from  her, 
had  kept  her  from  believing  in  the  truth  of 
his  love.  If  it  were  not  for  this,  he  thought, 
she  would  unhesitatingly  have  given  him  her 
promise.  He  wrote  her  letters  full  of  affec 
tion,  but  did  not  blame  her  that  her  answers 
were  uncertain  in  tone.  Dear  little  Yvonne ! 
How  could  she  understand?  He  was 
thankful  to  have  her  answers  at  all,  and 
only  prayed  that  no  impetuous  lover  might 
carry  her  off  before  he  could  find  it  possible 

to  claim  her  as  his  wife.      Wife Now, 

with  the  unopened  letter  in  his  hand,  he 
questioned  himself.  Would  he  find  her  the 
same,  would  he  feel  the  same,  as  he  had 
found  her,  as  he  had  felt — in  the  maple-wood 
by  the  St.  Gabriel?  He  tried  to  imagine  her 
as  head  of  some  modest  menage  on — no,  not 
in  this  dingy  quarter;  away  from  here,  on  a 
shady  side  street,  with  little  squares  of 
114 


THE  WINNING -OUT   OF  WILLOUGHBY 

green  grass  and  lilac-bushes  in  the  front 
yards,  where  white-capped  maids  open  the 
doors  when  the  electric  bell  rings.  Yes! 
He  could  call  up  the  picture — she  would  be 
very  dainty  and  piquant — sitting  there  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  behind  the  silver 
coffee-urn.  She  would  be  in  scarlet — he 
always  liked  her  in  that  scarlet  cotton  gown. 
Her  black  hair  and  little  white  teeth  when 
she  dimpled  and  smiled,  and  the  satiny 
touch  of  her  small  fingers, — her  quaint 
foreign  English,  with  its  sweet,  lisping 
inflections — he  could  almost  hear  it  now, 
her  "Monsieur  Villeaufo'//^. " 

Willoughby's  eyes  were  closed.  The 
ugly,  corpulent  stove  and  Mr.  Thomas 
Rossiter's  printed  card  were  forgotten. 
Again  the  wind  sighed  in  the  fir-trees,  and 
the  St.  Gabriel,  far  down  below  in  its  narrow 
bed,  boomed  sleepily  like  dreaming  thunder. 

Yes,  he  would  have  old  Otto  over  to  spend 
the  evening — Otto — with  his  preposterous 
attitudes  and  bristling  pompadour  of  sandy 
hair.  He  would  sit  and  pound  the  table 
and  talk  Carl  Marx  at  them,  while  he  and 
Yvonne — ah — yes — he  and  Yvonne 

Otto  Pfeffer's  heavy  snoring  in  the  other 
room  awoke  him  from  his  reverie. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

There  stood  the  corpulent  stove,  and  Mr. 
Thomas  Rossiter's  name  stared  down  at  him 
where  Otto  had  stuck  it  with  its  edge  under 
the  woodwork  of  one  of  the  door  panels. 

"Rex  mortuus  est.  Vivat  Rex,"  Pfeffer 
had  written  under  it  in  great  black  scrawls. 

Waltz  music  began  to  strike  up  from 
Schumacher's  Hall  behind  the  saloon  on  the 
corner.  He  could  just  hear  the  push  of  the 
dancers'  feet  upon  the  floor. 

He  opened  the  Canadian  letter.  It  was 
dated : 

La  Jeune  Vallette. 
Dear  Monsieur  Willoughby : 

You  are  kind  still  to  had  thought  of  me, 
though  it  is  long  time  that  I  do  not  see  you. 
Petit  Hilaire  he  grow  one  big  little  boy  and 
very  good.  Ernestine  was  at  the  Convent 
de  Marie-Joseph.  She  grow  very  nice  lit 
tle  girl,  with  so  yellow  hair  like  papan 
Etienne. 

I  want  ask  you  not  to  think  of  Yvonne  no 
more.  I  say  one  time  I  like  you  very 
much,  but  that  so  long  time  ago  and  you 
been  gone.  I  read  one  nice  book  with  the 
dear  Abbe*  every  mornings.  It  is  English — 

I  had  not  thought  of  you  now  any  more. 

[Oh,  Yvonne!] 

I  don'  know  what  I  do  to-morrow  year. 
Maybe  I  go  way  to  Monre"al  and  be  Gray 
Sister. 

116 


THE  WINNING-OUT   OF  WILLOUGHBY 

So  I  write  you  my  adieu.  You  will  not 
care  of  not  hearing  of  Yvonne. 

Votre  amie  du  temps  jadis, 

Yvonne  Brusseau. 

My  maman  wishes  me  to  have  my  cousin 
in  marriage — Pole'on  demand  me  now  this 
many  a  times 

Pierce  could  not  help  but  smile  at  the 
naive  little  postscript,  but  he  folded  the 
letter  tenderly  and  put  it  back  into  its 
envelope. 

Dear  little  Yvonne !  He  must  seek  her  at 
once.  Things  might  take  care  of  them 
selves.  Let  his  bank-account  go  hang. 
He  would  manage  for  them  both,  some 
how.  The  "modest  me'nage"  dwindled  to  a 
three-room  flat.  That  letter  was  impera 
tive.  Delay  might  be  fatal.  His  Yvonne 
married  to  another,  to  Poleon  Gros-Louys! 

He  pushed  his  chair  back  noisily,  and 
walked  up  and  down  between  the  green- 
calcimined  walls  of  the  dimly-lighted  room. 

"Himmel!"  muttered  Otto  Pfeffer,  turn 
ing  over  uneasily  in  his  sleep,  "what  are  you 
up  to,  old  man?" 

Willoughby's  eyes  fell  on  Rossiter's  card 
and  on  the  Evening  News  which  lay  on  his 

"7 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

desk,  open  at  Jim  Mcllhaney's  speech  in 
Ashfield  Hall. 

That  campaign!  His  nomination!  The 
dishonest  alderman  against  whom  he  was 
running!  The  election  on  which  so  much 
depended!  These  rushed  into  his  mind. 
Could  he  run  away  from  his  campaign? 
Could  he  desert  the  cause  he  was  enlisted  to 
support?  Now,  above  all,  when  the  city 
boss  had  almost  thrust  victory  into  his 
hands ! 

Willoughby  stood  stock-still  in  the  center 
of  the  room.  His  mental  and  his  physical 
attitude  exactly  corresponded.  He  was  at 
a  dead  stand.  Two  conflicting  emotions 
within  his  breast  had  locked  arms  and  were 
motionless.  Full  five  minutes  he  stood 
thus.  Then  he  sat  down  and  wrote  to 
Yvonne  a  letter  of  fervent  asseveration,  of 
reluctant  delaying,  of  manly  pleading. 

Hastily  he  sealed  it.  The  morning  light 
was  already  showing  in  the  gray  sky  above 
the  low  roofs  and  sheds  that  stretched  away 
below  his  back  window. 

The  gas-light  still  shone  from  the  oval 
windows  in  Schumacher's  Hall,  whence 
came  the  languishing  strains  of  the  Home, 
Sweet  Home  waltz  and  the  tired  tread  of  the 

118 


THE  WINNING -OUT  OP  WILLOUGHBY 

last  dancers'  feet.  Willoughby  seized  his 
hat  and  went  out  into  the  street  to  mail  his 
letter  at  the  corner  box. 

The  early  workmen  were  already  filing 
down  Libby  Avenue  into  the  Yards.  A 
somber  procession  of  toil,  with  their  dis 
colored  clothes,  stolid  faces  and  swinging 
dinner-pails. 

By  the  saloon  Willoughby  bought  a  morn 
ing  paper  of  a  newsboy.  His  eye  caught 
this  heading: 

"Mcllhaney  Turned  Down. 
Rossiter  and  Mcllhaney  Disagree." 

Further  down  he  read : 

"It  is  rumored  that  Pierce  Willoughby, 
the  Fifteenth  Ward  candidate,  is  to  be  given 
a  place  on  the  Republican  ticket.  The 
party  leaders  admit  the  strength  of  the 
reform  movement.  It  is  thought  that  Wil 
loughby 's  name  will  strengthen  the  whole 
ticket.  There  is  no  doubt  that  this  new 
move  will  insure  the  election  of  the  young 
reform  leader.  The  Independents  are  con 
gratulating  themselves  upon  the  prospective 
success  of  their  nominee. ' ' 

The  nomination  had  thus  been  thrust  upon 
Willoughby  before  he  had  decided  the  ethics 
of  the  matter.  Thereupon  he  decided  not 
119 


THE  LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

to  decide  it,  but  let  the  circumstance  be  his 
guide. 

Now  he  and  Otto  were  having  it  back  and 
forth  in  one  of  their  most  fervid  discussions. 
In  such  discussions  Otto  was  always  the 
Mountain  and  Pierce  the  Plain.  Valentino, 
their  Italian  neighbor  and  co-worker,  fer 
vidly  listened. 

"The  trouble  is  just  here,"  said  Otto, 
knocking  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  upon  the 
table,  "you're  sailing  under  the  colors  of  a 
rotten  machine — Gott  in  Himmel!  What's 
the  matter?"  as  he  was  interrupted  by 
laughter  from  the  Plain. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Willoughby,  "we 
won't  mind  mixed  metaphors." 

"Now  you  are  going  in  as  Rossiter's  man, 
and  the  mass  of  the  people  won't  know  what 
your  dashed  exalted  reform-purposes  are, 
will  they?  Bless  them!  not  they!  And 
they  won't  care,  not  a  whit.  They  vote  for 
you  because  you're  run  by  the  party  leaders. 
So  the  people  aren't  educated  up  to  it  as 
they  ought  to  be  by  a  landslide  of  votes  in 
favor  of  clean  politics.  You  throw  all  that 
away  by  this  gol-darned  compromise  of 
yours. ' ' 

Otto  was  glaring  at  the  heap  of  ashes  on 

120 


THE  WINNING -OUT  OF  WILLOUGHBY 

the  table.  His  big,  honest  cheeks  were 
flushed  under  his  light,  straggling  whiskers. 
Valentino  thrust  his  thin,  nervous  fingers 
through  his  black,  longish  hair.  He 
admired  Pfeffer.  He  loved  Willoughby,  but 
thought  that  Pfeffer  was  in  the  right. 

"His  voice  is  vehement,  friend  Willough 
by,"  Valentino  said,  "but  his  eyes  see 
clearly." 

"As  I  was  saying,"  Pfeffer  went  on,  not 
minding  the  interruption,  "that's  donkeyism 
number  one.  What  we  want  is  not  so  much 
votes  as  opinions,  and  them  you're  not  going 
to  get  without  a  fight.  It's  the  fight  we 
want.  Without  it,  victory  is  a  sham. 

"Second,  not  only  will  this  agitation  in 
favor  of  the  Independent  movement  be  lost, 
but  a  lot  of  folks  will  believe  you've  made  a 
deal  of  some  kind,  and  you  can't  harry  them 
out  of  the  belief.  So  you'll  not  only  spoil 
the  chance  of  adding  to  our  side,  you'll  sub 
tract  some  who  aren't  over-confident  now 
of  any  one's  honesty.  That's  donkeyism 
number  two ' ' 

"There's  only  one  more  thing  to  be  said," 
added  Willoughby,  quietly,  "which  is,  that 
I  have  made  a  deal  and  the  boodlers  are 
going  to  profit  by  it ' ' 

121 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

"Diablemento!"  exclaimed  Valentino. 
"No  one  but  yourself  should  say  that  of 
you." 

"But  I  was  coming  to  it,"  said  Otto. 
' '  That  would  be  donkeyism  number  three. ' ' 

"Do  you  believe  it?"  asked  Willoughby. 

"I  believe  in  the  'ugly  central  fact  of 
donkeyism,'  "  replied  Otto,  "but  I  believe 
you'll  kick  clear  of  it,  my  boy." 

There  was  silence  in  the  room  for  several 
minutes,  while  Otto  smoked,  Pierce 
thought,  and  Valentino  shifted  his  long 
legs  uneasily,  looking  from  one  to  the 
other. 

"What  did  you  say?"  asked  Otto. 

"I  did  not  say." 

' '  I  want  you  to. ' ' 

"You  know  just  my  position,  Pfeffer.  I 
am  running  for  honest  administration.  I 
shall  tell  the  people  so.  I  go  in  with  clean 
hands.  Let  the  people  suspect  me  if  they 
will.  Better  men  have  been  suspected 
before.  It's  wiser  to  fight  in  the  council 
than  to  fight  to  get  in  and  fail. ' ' 

"You're  obdurate,  then,  I  see,"  said  Otto, 
bluntly.  ' '  Good-night. ' ' 

"What!  You're  not  going  with  me  to 
Ashfield  Hall  to  hear  my  speech?" 


THE  WINNING- OUT  OF  WILLOUGHBY 

"Tonner  and  blitzen,  no!  I'm  going  to 
turn  in  early. ' ' 

"And  you?"  asked  Willoughby. 

"I  shall  be  there,"  said  the  Italian. 

Rossiter  was  to  come  for  Willoughby  at 
half-past  seven  to  take  him  over  to  the  hall 
where  he  was  to  make  his  speech,  calling 
down  the  Democratic  candidate  for  the 
same  office  and  extolling  the  purity  of  his 
own  intentions.  But  the  speech  was  not  to- 
be  what  Rossiter  expected,  nor,  indeed,  what 
Willoughby  himself  had  planned  when  they 
started  out  together  in  a  cab  for  Ashfield 
Hall. 

"Rossiter,"  said  Willoughby,  as  they 
neared  the  hall,  "I'm  not  quite  clear  on  this 
New  City  scheme  that  you  say  will  come  up 
in  the  committee " 

"Well,  you  know  Mcllhaney  is  dead 
against  it." 

"Yes." 

"And  we're  for  it." 

Willoughby  recoiled  at  the  "we,"  and 
said:  "That's  not  so  sure,  is  it?" 

"Why  not?" 

"I  must  know  more  of  it,  first." 

This  was  the  time  that  Rossiter  over 
reached  himself.  The  corporation  attor- 
123 


THE   LADY   OF  THE    FLAG -FLOWERS 

ney's  comment  on  the  sameness  of  human 
nature  came  to  his  mind. 

"He  wants  to  see  the  color  of  his  pay," 
Rossiter  thought,  and  so  he  lighted  the  fuse 
which  set  on  fire  the  powder  that  later 
burst  the  bomb-shell  of  that  memorable 
evening. 

"You  can  trust  Elkins, "  said  Rossiter. 
'Til  have  a  cool  thousand  from  him,  and  as 
for  your  share  of  the  chink,  why,  Tommy 
Rossiter's  word  is  as  good  as  gold,  any 
day." 

"Do  you  think,  sir,"  retorted  Willoughby, 
in  a  blaze,  "that  I  am  in  this  thing  for  the 
boodle?  Am  I  the  man  to  blackmail  corpora 
tions  or  block  public  enterprises " 

Willoughby's  voice  had  risen  in  his  heat, 
but  the  cab  had  stopped  before  Ashfield  Hall. 

The  city  boss  was  getting  out,  with  a  smile 
upon  his  lips  at  the  new  candidate's  "dra 
matics." 

Ashfield  Hall  was  filled  to  the  utmost,  and 
the  air  was  blue  with  smoke.  It  was 
largely  an  assembly  of  laboring  men,  Ger 
mans,  Irish,  Poles  and  Bohemians  mixed. 
Some  few  "tough-nuts"  and  loafers  stood  in 
the  passage-way  and  by  the  door.  They 
were  largely  Mcllhaney's  "boys,"  who  had 
124 


THE  WINNING -OUT   OF  WILLOUGHBY 

come  to  make  trouble  for  the  green  speaker. 
In  front,  occupying  chairs,  were  the  Inde 
pendents  from  the  eastern  side  of  the  ward, 
thinking  men  of  integrity  who  had  been 
culled  from  the  ranks  of  both  parties.  The 
majority  of  the  audience  were  stupidly 
staunch  Republicans,  who  had  been  obedient 
henchmen  of  Tommy's  and  of  his  ward- 
heeler  for  years. 

They  were  mostly  Yards  laborers,  scrap 
ers,  cutters,  ribbers,  packers,  shacklers,  with 
an  assortment  of  that  rougher  class  who 
handled  the  knives  on  the  "Beds."  There 
were  also  bosses  from  the  different  depart 
ments  and  artisans  and  shop-keepers,  whose 
wares  were  displayed  within  and  without  the 
shops  with  the  queer  foreign  signs  that  lined 
the  avenue. 

Willoughby  was  introduced  by  Mr.  Thomas 
Rossiter's  flowing  periods,  as  "the  man  of 
the  future,  the  exponent  of  the  triumphant 
new  Republicanism. ' '  Reference  was  made 
to  the  Monitor's  successful  fight  against  a 
certain  infamous  bill,  to  the  Park  Commis 
sion  on  which  Willoughby  had  served  and 
through  which  had  been  obtained  Sobieski 
Park,  in  the  New  City  neighborhood,  and  to 
a  Relief  Bureau  which  Willoughby  had 
125 


THE  LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

organized  tinder  the  auspices  of  the  Monitor, 
and  which  had  helped  many  during  the  hard 
times  the  preceding  winter.  Every  one  of 
these  apt  allusions  was  met  by  a  vigorous 
round  of  applause. 

After  such  an  auspicious  introduction,  the 
young  politician  stepped  forward  on  the  plat 
form.  His  old  speech  he  had  utterly  dis 
carded,  and  his  new  speech  was  seething 
inarticulately  within  him.  It  would  make 
a  great  difference  whether  that  speech  were 
reported  subjectively  or  objectively.  It  was 
one  speech  that  Willoughby  thought  he 
made  and  another  that  the  people  heard. 
But  all  were  agreed  that  it  was  the  most 
peculiar  campaign  utterance  that  ever  went 
out  from  Ashfield  Hall. 

Whether  it  was  the  medieval  look  of  vas 
salage  on  the  faces  before  him  or  Otto's 
"donkeyism"  still  ringing  in  his  ears,  Pierce 
could  think  of  nothing  but  Giordano  Bruno's 
symbolism  of  the  ass. 

Whimsically  enough,  the  first  words  that 
surged  to  his  lips  were  these : 

"Of  two  sorts  are  the    bipeds — superior 
and    divine,    inferior    and    vulgar. 
Of  two  kinds  are  the  asses — domestic  and 
savage — " 

126 


THE  WINNING -OUT  OF  WILLOUGHBY 

Looking  down  at  the  astonished  herd 
before  him,  he  barely  saved  himself  from 
this  and  then  suddenly  saw  his  own  image, 
a  leader  of  them,  there  on  the  platform,  and 
divinely  stupid.  Again  out  of  the  confusion 
of  his  mind,  these  words  arose : 

"The  whole  animal  kingdom  is  governed 
by  the  ass,  on  whom  the  gods  have  con 
ferred  preeminence  and  a  post  in  the  poop. ' ' 

It  was  scarcely  an  appreciable  minute, 
however,  before  he, commenced  speaking, 
and  every  eye  was  riveted  upon  his  hard-set 
face,  with  its  glittering  blue  eyes  and 
cynically-smiling  mouth. 

"Fellow-citizens,"  he  said,  "I  stand  here 
before  you  as  a  renegade — ' ' 

"What  kind  o'  brigade  is  that?"  shouted  a 
voice  in  the  rear. 

"It's  the  brigade  we  all  belong  to  who 
don't  live  up  to  our  convictions." 

"If  it's  convictions  you're  talking  about, 
I'm  not  in  it,"  said  the  man,  with  meaning 
less  smartness. 

"Shut  up!  Give  the  feller  a  chance," 
added  another  of  Mcllhaney's  boys. 

But  Willoughby's  voice  bore  down  these 
last  two  comments  as  he  went  on : 

"Not  as  an  exponent  of  Republicanism, 
127 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

new  or  old,  triumphant  or  defeated,  do  I 
stand  here.  In  city  politics,  I  am  not 
Republican,  no,  and  shame  beit  to  me  that  I 
must  say  it  in  so  public  a  place  and  in  this 
public  way — I  will  not  serve  under  the 
Republican  machine — " 

There  was  breathless  silence  when  a 
young  fellow  by  the  door  with  a  cigar  in  his 
mouth  and  a  derby  hat  over  one  ear,  called 
out:  "He's  got  a  jag  on.  Turn  him  out." 

"I  withdraw.  I  wish  I  could  find  words 
strong  enough  to  express  my  scorn  for  the 
machine  methods  and  machine  motives, 
which  have  been  revealed  to  me  this  evening 
more  clearly  than  ever  before.  Citizens  of 
the  New  City,  I  reprobate  myself  that  for 
one  moment  I  dreamed  that  reform  could 
result  from  compromise.  I  repudiate  my 
nomination. ' ' 

Here  his  voice  was  drowned  by  mingled 
roars  and  hisses  from  the  central  mass  of 
Republicans,  who  began  to  realize  the  sig 
nificance  of  his  words. 

"I  demand  a  right  to  be  heard — "  thun 
dered  Willoughby,  and  above  the  storm  of 
voices  his  voice  predominated  and  won  him 
a  respite. 

"I  withdraw,  I  have  said,  from  the  Repub- 
128 


THE  WINNING-OUT  OF  WILLOUGHBY 

lican  gang  ticket,  but  not  from  the  field.  I 
am  here  to  stay.  I  am  here  to  fight. ' ' 

Willoughby,  squaring  his  shoulders  against 
the  turbulent  crowd,  looked  every  inch  a 
fighter.  He  had  lost  that  hesitation  which 
marked  his  first  utterances.  Opposition  and 
scorn  had  roused  the  animal  in  him. 

"I  made  a  mistake.  I  have  admitted  it. 
I  am  back  again  under  the  old  standard  to 
fight  for  the  same  cause  which  I  falsely  sup 
posed  could  be  served  under  the  enemy's 
ensign.  Fellow  citizens,  I  summon  you 
here  to  rally  around  me — all  who  want  an 
honest  administration,  who  want  clean 
streets,  who  want  their  own  pockets  replen 
ished  by  the  results  of  their  own  enterprise, 
who  want  compensation  for  the  franchises 
they  bestow,  who  want  service  from  the 
great  corporations  without  the  cost  of  black 
mail  laid  upon  their  own  shoulders.  That  is 
what  this  man  here,  who  is  your  leader, 
would  have  done.  If  I  had  gone  into  the 
council  under  his  patronage,  his  purse 
would  have  jingled  with  gold. ' ' 

Willoughby's  voice  went  on,  drowning  the 
cries  of  "Prove  it!  Prove  it!"  that  inter 
rupted  him  here.  He  continued  speaking  of 
the  value  of  an  educational  campaign,  of 
129 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

the  necessity  of  a  party  behind  the  Inde 
pendent  movement.  He  exposed  the  cor 
ruption  of  the  council,  the  greed  of  the 
aldermen,  the  soullessness  of  certain  com 
panies,  in  scathing  terms.  He  held  his 
audience  by  the  fierce  magnetism  of  his 
personality  and  the  sheer  brute  force  of  his 
words. 

But  when  he  ceased  speaking,  the  spell 
was  loosed  and  the  assemblage  broke  up 
into  the  wildest  uproar.  The  Independents 
rallied  round  him  and  forced  their  way  out 
of  the  hall. 

Otto  Pfeffer,  who  was  there,  of  course, 
during  the  whole  meeting,  seized  one  arm 
and  Valentino  the  other.  They  hurried  off 
together  to  the  quiet,  monotonous  street. 

"He's  a  talker  all  right,"  said  the  saloon 
keeper,  who  had  shouted  "Turn-coat." 

"But  he's  squashed  himself  at  the  polls, 
sure  enough.  What  a  d d  fool ! ' ' 

"Otto,"  said  Willoughby  humbly,  as  the 
two  stumbled  round  in  their  dark  rooms, 
"am  I  a  donkey?" 

"No,"  roared  Otto,  with  unnecessary 
vehemence,  "you're  not  the  ass  at  the  poop, 
you're  a  man." 


130 


CHAPTER  II 

ORCHARDHURST 

The  haze-empurpled  air  of  autumn  hung 
like  a  visible  revery  over  the  orchard  slopes. 
The  faint  fragrance  of  burning  grass  on  a 
near-by  hill  gave  a  cooked  tang  to  the 
atmosphere.  Through  the  long  mellow 
spaces  of  the  afternoon  came  the  cheery 
voices  of  apple-pickers  on  their  ladders 
among  the  trees  and  the  occasional  rich 
drumbling  of  the  apples,  poured  from  the 
baskets  into  the  barrels. 

Dr.  Van  Eyck,  like  a  long-bearded  tutelary 
genius  of  apple-harvest,  sat  on  an  overturned 
barrel  in  the  lane,  alternately  puzzling  out 
lines  of  a  sonnet-acrostic  and  bellowing 
directions  to  his  men.  It  was  almost  time 
for  Brockton  to  return  with  the  mail.  Mail 
time  for  Dr.  Van  Eyck  was  the  pivotal  point 
of  the  day.  Not  that  he  was  a  man  of 
affairs,  for  except  in  his  own  estimation  he 
was  the  lord  of  unlimited  leisure,  being  a 
retired  physician,  and  having  no  cares  in 
life  but  a  small  orchard  and  a  large,  self- 


THE  LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

inflicted  correspondence.  But  to  what  per 
son  engaged  in  extensive  sonneteering  and 
having  at  his  command  a  sufficient  number 
of  stamps  for  "submission,"  would  not  mail 
time  be  the  pivotal  point  of  the  day? 
Besides  the  latent  possibilities  of  eager 
editorial  acceptance  in  every  unopened  lot 
of  letters,  there  were  six  weekly  religious 
papers  coming  in,  a  medical  journal,  and 
proofs  of  scientific  pamphlets,  privately  put 
forth  from  time  to  time. 

"Hi  there,  Cordey,  turn  those  pippins  in 
more  gently."  The  doctor  interrupted 
himself  in  mid-line.  "You're  bruising 
them,  man.  And  pick  out  a  bushel  of  the 
finest  russets  to  send  over  to  Mrs.  Wilmot's. " 

The  barrels  beneath  the  trees  were  begin 
ning  to  round  up  with  glistening  green- 
cheeked  apples. 

Brockton  sauntered  down  the  hilly  road 
to  the  house.  The  road  wound  between 
old-fashioned  shrubbery,  weigelias,  smoke- 
bushes,  lilacs.  He  was  espied  from  afar  by 
his  father. 

"Bring  them  here,  "he  shouted,  with  the 
superb  confidence  of  one  who  has  never 
been  disappointed  by  post-office  returns. 

His  voice,  in  volume  and  ferocity  ,was  out 
132 


ORCHARDHURST 

of  all  proportion  to  its  intent,  having  often 
times  a  most  salutary  effect  upon  careless 
apple  pickers.  Even  stolid  Draper,  the 
almost  stone-deaf,  bent  old  gardener  had 
been  known  to  quiver  an  eyelash  at  one 
terrific  admonition  of  the  doctor's. 

Brockton  sauntered  across  the  over-long 
grass  of  the  lawn.  Brockton  always  saun 
tered.  More  especially  if  all  about  him  were 
flurried  and  hurried  did  his  attitude  assume 
an  elegant  lassitude.  You  would  misjudge 
him  if  you  deemed  this  due  to  perversity. 
It  sprang  from  a  large-minded  desire  to 
counteract  evil  tendency  in  others. 

' '  Only  one  letter,  father, ' '  the  young  man 
smiled,  "and  that  from  Madge." 

He  strolled  off  through  the  trees  toward 
the  grape-trellis  that  on  a  southern  slope 
hung  heavy  with  dark  blue  fruit.  Im 
maculately  groomed  and  tailored  as  he 
was,  with  his  clean-shaven,  indifferent  face 
and  listless  walk ,  he  was  quite  out  of  keep 
ing  with  the  hearty  old  country  place,  with 
its  air  of  bounteous  good  comradeship  and 
unconventional  ease. 

He  was  the  inexplicable  member  of  the 
Van  Eyck  family.  He  inherited  neither  the 
teeming  if  somewhat  bespent  energy  of  his 
133 


THE   LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

father  nor  the  graceful  and  unobtrusive 
activity  of  his  mother.  Unlike  his  sister 
Helen,  who  seemed  a  delicate  embodiment 
of  conscience,  so  carefully  were  thought  and 
deed  in  her  adjusted  to  the  requirements 
of  equity,  Brockton  scorned  the  idea  that 
right  and  wrong  should  enter  into  a  man's 
calculations.  It  was  beneath  him  entirely 
to  weigh  life  in  the  balance.  His  wishes 
were  their  own  justification. 

Since  college,  he  had  been  able  to  find  no 
calling  nicely  suited  to  his  particular  line  of 
ability.  He  had  finally,  as  it  was  supposed, 
settled  down  to  a  life  of  gifted  irresponsi 
bility.  This  was  the  general  belief,  though 
the  j^oung  man  himself  had  never  been 
known  to  make  a  definite  statement  on  the 
subject.  Definite  statements  were  also 
among  the  details  that  dignity  forbade. 
From  time  to  time  he  made  brief  trips  to 
New  York,  where  he  was  supposed  by  his 
father  to  be  visiting  his  college  friends 
and  by  those  friends  to  be  transacting  impor 
tant  business  for  his  father. 

His    sister    Madge,    who    was    living    in 

town,  saw  little  of  him  at  these  times,  and 

was  not  quite  gratified  with  the  little  that 

she  did  see.     She  was  keener  to  observe  in 

134 


ORCHARDHURST 

him  the  traces  of  dissipation  than  his  con 
fiding  parents  or  the  blameless  Helen. 

Needless  to  say,  Brockton  Van  Eyck  was 
lightly  esteemed  by  the  good  dames  and 
burghers  of  his  own  little  Dutch  village 
among  the  hills. 

Spuyten  Kill  mingled  the  characteristics 
of  suburb,  country  village  and  resort,  and 
only  with  its  residents  in  the  last  capacity 
did  Brockton  care  to  affiliate  himself.  But 
as  he  did  not  keep  a  saddle  horse  nor  a 
kennel  of  dogs  the  young  men  failed 
entirely  to  understand  him ;  and  as  he  had 
never  disturbed  himself  in  gallantries  the 
maidens  looked  upon  him  with  pale  interest. 
Madge  had  been  the  saving  member  of  this 
family ;  when  she  had  been  Miss  Van  Eyck, 
friendly  with  the  burg,  cordial  with  the 
suburb  and  chatty  with  the  fashionables 
from  town.  No  wonder  that  she  had  mar 
ried,  in  the  normal  way,  and  as  Mrs.  Fenton, 
was  a  recognized  leader  in  certain  New 
York  circles. 

Helen  Van  Eyck,  a  girl  of  eighteen, 
haughtily  timid  and  little  understood,  now 
more  alone  than  ever,  found  the  long 
country  year  full  of  golden  quiets,  among 
her  books  at  Orchardhurst. 
135 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG- FLOWERS 

Gathered  at  the  tea-table  that  evening, 
with  the  western  sun  flickering  through  the 
wistaria  and  woodbine,  and  touching  here 
and  there  the  china  and  glass,  the  family 
were  listening  to  Madge's  letter,  which  had 
been  prefaced  by  Dr.  Van  Eyck's — 

"A  most  remarkable  document  from  our 
daughter  Madge." 

Interested  silence  followed  its  conclusion. 
Dr.  Van  Eyck,  out  of  respect  to  his  sex,  had 
the  habit  of  deferring  first  to  his  son  in  fam 
ily  discussions. 

"Well,  Brockton?"  he  inquired. 

"The  olives,  Eliza,"  said  the  young  man, 
and  this  more  important  matter  having  been 
disposed  of,  Brockton  proceeded. 

"Most  absurd.  That  we  should  receive 
an  untutored  savage  into  the  bosom  of  our 
family !  And  for  an  indefinite  time !  If  she 
doesn't  weary  of  us  before  we  do  of  her,  we 
shall  be  harried  into  our  graves  before 
Christmas." 

"Cornelia?" 

Dr.  Van  Eyck,  who  loved  a  lengthy  and 
well-ordered  domestic  conference,  had 
turned  to  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Van  Eyck  was  a  woman  of  decided 
convictions,  but  gentle  of  speech. 
136 


ORCHARDHURST 

"I  want  to  hear  what  you  and  Helen  have 
to  say,"  she  replied. 

"As  for  me,"  the  doctor  began,  "it  will 
be  a  heavy  addition  to  my  burden  of 
responsibilities,  but  Madge  describes  the 
child  as  interesting  and  rarely  intelligent. 
Her  education,  even  in  the  English  lan 
guage,  will  be  no  slight  task,  and  as  for  her 
training  in  domestic  and  social  felicities, 
Helen  would,  no  doubt,  find  that  within  her 
sphere  of  duty.  The  girl  will,  of  course, 
gain  a  great  deal  besides  the  direct  instruc 
tion.  ' ' 

"Ah,  the  incomparable  atmosphere! 
What  will  she  not  absorb!"  drawled 
Brockton. 

' '  Then  we  are  to  turn  her  out, ' '  the  doctor 
went  on,  "educated,  civilized  and  an  orna 
ment  to  society.  I  think  it  will  be  a  valu 
able  experiment. ' ' 

"Well  put,"  said  Brockton.  "The  experi 
ments  of  fools  are  of  value  to  the  wise. " 

It  was  Helen's  turn.  Eagerly  she  pleaded 
for  Yvonne  Brusseau.  Something  in  the 
novelty  of  the  idea  and  in  her  sister's 
description  of  the  girl's  fresh,  simple  nature 
appealed  to  her.  Helen's  rare  enthusiasms 
were  oftenest  for  causes  other  than  her  own. 


THE  LADY  OP  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

"Helen  and  Pocohontas!"  laughed  Brock 
ton,  "what  a  delicious  contrast  it  will  be!" 

"And  now,  Cornelia?" 

"It  will  certainly  be  a  serious  responsi 
bility,"  said  the  wife,  knowing  well  on 
whose  shoulders  the  responsibility  would  fall. 
"But  Madge  says  the  girl  has  great  possi 
bilities  and  is  unhappy  where  she  is.  It 
would  be  cruel  to  put  her  under  the 
restraint  of  a  boarding-school,  and  she 
would  certainly  have  opportunity  for  a  some 
what  free  and  natural  development  with  us. 
It  seems  an  opportunity^for  good  which  we 
should  not  refuse.  And,  by  the  way,  when 
did  Madge  say  she  was  coming  out? 
Wednesday?  Why,  that  is  this  evening." 

"And  there  they  are  now,"  cried  Helen, 
hearing  the  sound  of  carriage  wheels  on  the 
gravel  road  beneath  the  window. 

"Bravo  for  the  new  regime,"  said  Brock 
ton,  smilingly,  under  his  breath. 

He  sprang  to  unfasten  the  glass  doors 
opening  on  the  porch  and  took  his  mother's 
arm  over  the  threshold,  as  they  all  hastened 
out  to  meet  the  new  arrivals. 

But  mockery  and  philosophy  alike  were 
confuted  by  Yvonne's  presence.  She  might 
have  been  any  little  black-eyed  French- 
138 


ORCHARDHURST 

Canadian  girl,  in  ordinary  attire,  rather 
than  the  petite  sauvagesse  they  had  pic 
tured  her.  Helen  and  her  mother,  how 
ever,  welcomed  the  disillusionment.  Yvonne, 
shyly  silent  and  reserved,  was  spectator 
more  than  participant  of  the  first  gathering 
and  made  many  reflections  of  which  her 
face  gave  small  sign. 

Madge  filled  the  room  with  a  breeze  of 
conversation  and  laughter  till  finally  it  was 
bed-time. 

It  was  not  more  than  a  week  after  this 
that  Yvonne,  fully  ensconced  at  Orchard- 
hurst,  was  presented  by  the  doctor  with  a 
sonnet-acrostic,  beginning: 

"Yclad  in  native  charms,  th'  ingenuous 
maid." 

What  follows  is  part  of  a  letter  which 
Yvonne  wrote  to  her  mother  after  she  had 
been  a  few  months  at  Orchardhurst : 

Chere  Maman, 

Here  one  has  to  walk  many  arpents  to 
reach  a  wood  and  when  one  is  in  the  wood 
it  is  only  a  few  minutes  before  one  sees  light 
through  the  trees  and  it  is  the  open  again. 
I  walk  with  Monsieur  the  Doctor.  He  pulls 
the  petals  of  the  flowers  apart  and  makes 
me  to  look  at  them  through  a  glass  and 
gives  every  bit  a  long  name  in  Latin. 

139 


THE   LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

Monsieur  le  Cure"  would  understand  the 
Latin,  but  it  is  not  agreeable  for  a  girl  to 
say  such  long  words. 

Monsieur  is  a  good  man,  but  he  writes 
something  they  call  a  sonnet.  It  is  neces 
sary  that  it  be  of  a  certain  length  and  it  is 
oftentimes  about  a  person.  It  is  a  very 
curious  thing,  very  difficult  to  write  and 
also  to  read  understandingly.  He  has 
written  one  for  me  because  he  can  begin  the 
lines  with  the  letters  of  my  name,  for  there 
are  just  fourteen  letters  in  Yvonne  Brusseau. 
Monsieur  is  very  glad  when  he  knows  a 
name  fourteen  letters  long. 

No  more  of  this,  for  it  is  something  I  do 
not  well  understand. 

Monsieur  Brockton  is  idle  all  day,  doing 
different  things  but  nothing  with  his  hands. 
He  takes  pictures  of  trees  and  sometimes  of 
me.  He  likes  to  have  me  accompany  him 
when  he  goes  with  his  camera.  He  says  I 
have  an  artist's  eye.  An  artist's  eye  is  not 
to  like  a  red  brick  mansion  on  a  high  hill 
with  little  fir  and  cedar  trees  cut  and  twisted 
till  they  resemble  a  bad  dream.  For  there 
is  a  place  like  this  here,  chere  Maman,  which 
a  rich  man  built  because  he  wished  that  the 
people  should  know  the  money  he  had. 
This  is  horrible.  An  artist's  eye  is  to  like  a 
stone  wall  when  it  is  tumbling  down  and  a 
scarlet  woodbine  is  creeping  over  it,  also  the 
inside  of  a  dark  wood  when  it  is  midday  and 
tall  flowers  stand  like  white  candles  in  the 
shadows.  Monsieur  Brockton  and  I  have 
140 


ORCHARDHURST 

found  a  wood  like  that.  At  the  summit  is 
an  old  tower  which  one  built  long  ago  for 
the  view.  One  can  climb  to  the  top  and  see 
the  river  which  is  wide  and  blue,  beautiful 
almost  as  the  St.  Laurent,  and  the  tops  of 
the  trees  in  the  village  below  and  the  white 
roofs  of  houses. 

There  is  hunting  here,  but  not  such  as 
Pol  eon  finds  on  la  Montagne  Ronde  and  in 
the  Restigouche  forests. 

The  young  men  buy  a  fox  and  drive  him 
off  into  the  fields.  Then  they  dress  them 
selves  in  scarlet  and  go  on  horses  after-  him. 
This  is  called  a  Hunting  Club.  Monsieur 
Brockton  does  not  care  to  hunt.  He  likes 
best  to  sit  and  talk,  sometimes  even  with 
me.  His  hands  are  very  white,  like  a 
priest's.  When  he  smiles  his  face  is  pleas 
ant.  Tell  Poleon  that  I  do  not  much  like 
Monsieur  Brockton.  I  like  a  man  who  is 
strong  and  has  brown  hands  and  does  not 
look  strangely  at  you. 

His  sister  Helen  I  love  rnuch.^  She  has 
the  good  heart  and  eyes  of  truth/  We  read 
books  together  and  are  like  sisters.  I  can 
speak  the  English  trts  bien,  she  says. 

Madame  the  mother  is  perfect  in  all 
respects,  and  amiable  to  me  as  if  I  were  her 
daughter.  Madame  Fenton  comes  out  often 
and  I  tell  her  all  things. 

We  have  silver  forks  at  table  and  many 

plates  to  eat  from.     A  woman  cooks  in  the 

kitchen  and    another  stands  behind  us  to 

hand  us  the  dishes.     The  crumbs  must  be 

141 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG  -  FLOWERS 

removed  between  dinner  and  fruit,  and  one 
must  sit  very  straight  with  folded  hands 
and  not  assist.  It  is  often  irksome. 

I  study  many  hours  and  learn  out  of 
books. 

When  I  long  for  you,  che"re  Maman,  and 
for  petit  Hilaire  and  all  the  little  ones,  I  run 
away  over  the  hill  and  walk  up  and  down 
alone,  talking  to  you  in  our  own  dear  French. 
There  is  a  lonely  lane  by  the  tower-wood 
where  I  go.  I  take  off  my  hat  and  sit  on  a 
stone  and  call  aloud,  and  there  is  one  pine 
tree  which  is  a  friend  to  me. 

If  one  should  see  me  he  would  wonder  at 
la  petite  sauvagesse,  for  here  people  do  not 
run  with  the  little  wild  animals  alone  on 
hill-sides  nor  spend  all  the  day  with  the 
birds  by  the  river  swamp,  but  they  go 
walking  by  twos  for  an  hour  with  parasols  to 
keep  the  sun  from  their  cheeks. 

And  when  they  hear  a  bird  sing,  they  go 
home  and  hunt  it  down  in  a  book  so  as  to 
know  by  what  name  to  name  it. 

No,  Maman,  I  do  not  see  Monsieur  Wil- 
loughby,  nor  do  I  write  to  him.  He  does 
not  know  where  I  am  and  I  am  glad.  I 
have  learned  a  sonnet  of  Monsieur  the 
Doctor,  and  often  I  say  it  to  him  for  his 
delight.  He  likes  me  to  say  poems,  more 
particularly  when  he  has  written  them. 

There  are  many  books  in  the  house,  as  if 
it  were  the  Curb's,  and  we  must  walk  lightly 
on  the  floors  and  when  visitors  come  we 
ask  them  to  play  the  piano  and  to  sing. 

142 


ORCHARDHURST 

All  is  different,  and  it  often  wearies  me, 
but  I  am  happy,  for  I  am  in  the  world  and 
not  in  La  Jetme  Vallette. 

One  cannot  live  forever  in  Vallette. 
There  are  'things  beyond  which  I  am  begin 
ning  to  see. 


i43 


CHAPTER   III 

FIRST    TIMES 

There  were  a  great  many  First  Times  in 
Yvonne's  experience.  She  did  not  grow  up 
to  them  as  most  young  girls  do,  but  they  fell 
upon  her  out  of  the  skies. 

There  had  been  the  First  Party,  the  First 
Play  and  the  First  Shopping-Tour.  On 
these  occasions  she  observed  with  outward 
passivity  the  genus,  modern  society.  Her 
gravity  was  adjudged  due  to  her  lack  of 
fluent  English.  In  reality,  it  was  the 
speechlessness  that  accompanies  a  flood  of 
new  impressions.  If  there  was  one  social 
knack  Yvonne  possessed,  it  was  that  of 
maintaining  silence.  Her  silences  were 
neither  bete  nor  gauche.  They  were 
expressive  and  even  interesting. 

The  Indians  are  inveterate  gamesters. 
Yvonne  handled  life  as  a  card-player  plays  a 
new  game.  She  was  slow  to  show  her  hand 
and  quick  to  follow  a  lead.  She  reserved 
her  trump  cards  for  the  last. 

By  virtue  of  these  gifts  or  intuitions,  she 
145 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

saved   herself   from  any   glaring  blunders 
She  learned  early  that  to  do  as  other  peo 
ple  do,  is  the  Golden  Rule  of  society. 

To  be  sure,  she  had  sometimes  shown 
amazement  over  things  at  which  one  is  sup 
posed  to  conceal  amazement,  such  as,  shop 
windows,  polite  lies,  and  de'collete  gowns. 
She  had  commenced  answering  in  good  faith 
a  social  fusillade  of  questions  not  meant  to 
be  answered.  She  had  been  on  several 
occasions  conspicuously  silent  when  things 
were  discussed  concerning  which  she  was 
ignorant.  Things  of  which  society  is  ignor 
ant  she  kept  to  herself. 

Tissette  and  Poleon  would  not  harmonize 
with  Brockton  nor  Helen  Van  Eyck.  The 
danse  dramatique  and  the  fete  du  riviere 
would  not  find  a  proper  setting  in  Spuyten 
Kill  or  Riverside  Drive.  The  Herb-gather 
ers'  Village  and  Broadway  were  too  far 
apart. 

Whether  she  lived  at  all  in  the  old  life,  or 
longed  for  it,  the  Van  Eycks  never  knew. 
There  were  the  weekly  letters  to  maman, 
and  others,  not  so  frequent,  to  Poleon,  to 
both  of  which  there  came  infrequent  replies. 
There  were  occasional  little  gifts  sent  to 
Tissette  or  Aime",  or  petit  Hilaire.  These 
146 


FIRST  TIMES 

were  the  only  visible  signs  that  the  French- 
Huron  girl  remembered  the  home  of  her 
race.  Of  the  village  and  the  people  she 
would  never  speak. 

It  was  Yvonne's  second  winter  and  there 
came  another  of  her  First  Times.  Mrs. 
Fenion  was  giving  a  tea,  and  Yvonne  was 
invited.  She  wore  a  Spanish  costume,  with 
rings  in  her  ears,  and  her  brown  arms  bare. 
Mrs.  Fenton  had  dressed  her  so,  for  she  was 
to  read  from  the  Spanish  Gypsy. 

She  made  a  striking  figure,  of  course,  and 
her  "reading"  was  one  of  thel"  features"  of 
the  afternoon. 

"I'm  sure  I've  seen  you  before,  Miss 
Brusseau,"  drawled  a  blond  young  man. 
He  had  just  been  introduced  to  her,  at  his 
own  request,  by  Helen  Van  Eyck. 

"Weren't  you  at  the  Castelmari  salons  in 
Paris  last  winter?" 

' '  I  was  never  in  Paris, ' '  said  Yvonne,  with 
her  precise  English,  "and  I  am  sure* you 
have  never  seen  me  before." 

The  young  man  gave  her  a  second  look  of 
genuine  surprise.  He  was  shocked  at  her 
literalness. 

"I  shall  see  you  to-morrow  night,  I  hope," 
he  continued,  rather  aimlessly. 
147 


THE  LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

"Where?"  said  Yvonne. 

But  the  blond  young  man  was  talking  to  a 
girl  in  a  Gainsborough  hat,  and  now  he  and 
the  hat  were  edging  towards  the  tea-room 
together. 

"It  was  the  Coddingtons'  ball  to-morrow 
night  he  meant,"  said  Helen  Van  Eyck's 
quiet  voice  beside  Yvonne. 

"Almost  every  one  is  going.  He  was 
trying  to  place  you. ' ' 

"And  Paris?"  questioned  Yvonne,  with 
the  eager  smile  of  a  learner. 

"He  wondered  where  you  got  your  French 
accent." 

"You  were  delicious,  my  dear,"  said  a 
large  lady  in  black  satin,  to  whom 
Yvonne  had  been  introduced  ten  minutes 
before. 

"How  do  you  do  it?" 

"I  do — what?"  said  Yvonne. 

The  large  lady  had  laid  her  hand  upon 
Yvonne's  arm  and  was  pushing  past  her  with 
this  bit  of  patronage,  but  was  stopped  by 
Yvonne's  blunt  rejoinder. 

"Quite  ignorant,  poor  thing!"  she  said  to 
herself.  "I  suppose  she  is  paid." 

"Why, the  accent  and  the — phrasing — and 
all  that.  It's  so  good — so  foreign,  you  know. 
148 


FIRST  TIMES 

Don't  you  think  so,  Miss  Van  Eyck?  Yes, 
Colonel  Dennery,  I'm  with  you." 

This  to  a  tall  man  with  military  mustaches 
who  had  turned  to  look  for  her.  Then  she, 
too,  was  en  route  for  the  tea-room. 

"She  didn't  stay  long  enough  to  find  out 
your  nationality,"  said  Helen.  "That  was 
what  she  was  after.  It's  Mrs.  Cornelius 
Higgins.  She's  always  on  the  lookout  for 
celebrities. ' ' 

"Don't  you  love  Tschaikowsky?"  said  a 
sharp-featured  young  woman,  holding  a  can 
died  fig  between  her  gloved  finger-tips. 

She  had  drifted  up  beside  Yvonne,  who 
still  stood  in  the  embrasure  where  the  tide 
of  congratulatory  small-talk  had  left  her  after 
her  reading. 

A  bushy-haired  young  man  was  at  the 
piano  then,  but  how  was  Yvonne  to  know 
that  the  lavender-gloved  young  woman 
referred  to  his  music  and  not  to  the  candied 
fig? 

' '  I  never  tasted  it  before, ' '  replied  Yvonne. 

Fortunately  her  reply  was  lost  in  the  burst 
of  hand-clapping  that  succeeded  the  murmur 
of  voices  at  the  close  of  the  musician's 
rendition. 

"Magnificent,  wasn't  it?"  exclaimed  a  girl 
149 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG  -  FLOWERS 

on  the  window-seat,  who  had  been  telling  a 
story  vigorously  during  the  music. 

"Such  technique!"  murmured  her  vis-a 
vis,  and  each  took  the  other  quite  seriously. 

"Let's  talk  to  that  fascinating  Miss 
Brusseau.  They  say  she's  a  great  friend  of 
Madge  Fenton's. " 

This  from  the  vigorous  talker. 

Then,  leaning  forward,  she  addressed 
Yvonne,  who  stood  by  the  heavy  curtain, 
finding  a  spectacular  interest  in  the  scene 
around  her,  made  possible  by  her  ignorance 
and  self-possession. 

"Herr  von  Wertheimer  interprets  Wagner 
delightfully,  don't  you  think  so?" 

The  girl  was  not  sure  that  he  had  been 
playing  Wagner  at  all,  but  she  had  put  the 
question  safely. 

Yvonne  thought  a  moment  before  answer 
ing.  This  was  unusual,  and  it  made  its 
impression  upon  the  glib  society  girls. 

"Do  you  mean  the  music?"  asked  Yvonne, 
a  bit  puzzled,  but  framing  her  sentence  with 
care. 

"How  remarkable!"  thought  the  girl  who 
had  addressed  her.  Then,  as  Yvonne 
seemed  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  re 
plied  : 

150 


FIRST  TIMES 

"Yes,  I  did  enjoy  his  rendition  of  that  last 
theme,  didn't  you?" 

"I  really  didn't  listen  to  it,"  said  Yvonne, 
unaware  of  her  uniqueness.  "There  was  so 
much  conversation,  one  could  not  hear. ' ' 

' '  What  a  strange  young  person ! ' '  the  two 
girls  remarked  afterward  to  Mrs.  Cornelius 
Higgins.  "Where  does  she  come  from?" 

Brockton  had  stood  near  Yvonne  during 
this  last  passage  and  overheard  it. 

"I  say,  Miss  Brusseau,  you  gave  those 
girls  some  jolly  answers.  May  I  sit  down 
on  this  window  seat  beside  you?" 

"They  thought  me  stupid,"  said  Yvonne. 
"But  yes,  you  may.  If  they  knew  how 
much  I  had  learned  in  the  last  two  years, 
they  would  think  so  not  again. ' ' 

The  crowd  in  the  drawing-room  was  thin 
ning  out  now.  People  had  stopped  coming 
and  ladies  in  fluffy  wraps  were  going  out. 
The  streets  were  dark.  Carriage  numbers 
were  bawled  out  and  the  slamming  of  doors 
was  heard,  as  the  wheels  rumbled  away  with 
departing  guests. 

"This is  just  the  nice  time,"  began  Brock 
ton  boyishly,  when  a  lady  who  had  been  say 
ing  good-bye  to  the  receiving  line  came  up, 
holding  out  her  hand. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

She  was  a  tiny  body,  with  a  soft,  wrinkled 
little  face,  framed  in  youthful  curls,  and  a 
pair  of  sharp,  bird-like  eyes. 

Van  Eyck  muttered  something  under  his 
breath  which  the  tiny  lady  would  not  have 
liked  to  hear,  and  withdrew  to  a  portfolio  of 
foreign  views. 

"Mrs.  Fenton  has  been  telling  me  what  a 
charming  gift  you  have,"  the  lady  was  say 
ing,  in  her  modest  little  voice,  scrutinizing 
Yvonne  as  keenly  as  the  bird  does  the 
worm. 

"Indeed,  I  am  so  sorry  to  have  missed 
your  delightful  reading.  I  had  come  from 
Mrs.  Syswick's — .  You  know  Mrs.  Syswick?" 

"No,  I  do  not  know  her." 

"No?  I  thought  that  every  one  knew  her, 
especially  you  artistic  people.  One  could 
see  to  look  at  you  that  you  are  an  artist. 
Something  you  picked  up  on  your  travels?" 

She  was  fingering  the  Spanish  scarf  with 
a  deferential  touch,  but  her  glance  was 
inquisitorial. 

She  had  failed  to  get  satisfaction  from 
Mrs.  Fenton  as  to  Yvonne's  identity,  and 
was  now  pitting  her  adroitness,  unconscien- 
tiously,  against  a  young  girl's  inexperience. 

"No,  it  is  Mrs.  Fenton 's,"  said  Yvonne. 
152 


FIRST   TIMES 

"Ah!  Really  quite  Castilian.  You  have 
known  Mrs.  Fenton  a  long  time,  I  presume. 
She  tells  me  you  are  spending  the  month 
with  her." 

The  little  lady  paused  and  looked1.  There 
was  demand  in  her  look.  Yvonne  ignored 
it,  toying  with  the  fringe  of  her  scarf,  eyes 
downcast. 

"  I  do  not  speak  your  English  very  good, ' ' 
she  said  sweetly,  flashing  her  black  eyes 
upon  the  little  lady. 

It  was  as  if  in  apology  for  her  scant 
replies,  and  yet,  very  subtly,  it  had  the 
effect  of  a  dismissal. 

The  baffled  little  lady  moved  away,  and 
Brockton  suddenly  lost  interest  in  the  port 
folio  and  was  at  Yvonne's  side. 

"By  Jove,  that  was  a  good  one,  though!" 
he  ejaculated.  "You  turned  her  down 
neatly,  Yvonne." 

Yvonne  looked  at  him  gravely  and  said : 

"I  did  not  love  that  lady.  She  tried  to 
conquer  me  with  her  eyes. ' ' 

Now,  Mrs.  Fenton  was  walking  up  to  them 
with  William  Fitz-Simmons,  a  Younger  Son, 
at  her  elbow. 

"Here  comes  that  British  bulldog  pup,'r 
muttered  Brockton  in  Yvonne's  ear. 
153 


THE  LADY   OF  THE   FLAG  -  FLOWERS 

"Aw,  this  ain't  fair  at  all,"  said  Fitz-Sim- 
mons,  "you're  making  yourself  the  best- 
hated  man  in  the  room,  Van  Eyck. ' ' 

His  very  blond  mustache  was  curled  and 
parted  above  thick  red  lips  that  failed  to 
look  anything  but  juicy. 

Yvonne,  in  surprise,  glanced  about  the 
nearly-deserted  apartments.  No  one  was 
left  in  the  drawing-room  but  a  lady  and 
gentleman  in  the  doorway  who  were  talking 
to  some  departing  guests;  Mrs.  Higgins 
interviewing  the  bushy-haired  young  man 
at  the  piano ;  and  two  elderly  young  women 
from  Yonkers  who  stood  waveringly  near 
the  supper-room.  They  were  debating 
whether  they  should  take  the  next  train,  or 
go  into  the  supper-room  unescorted. 

"It  is  very  kind  of  Mr.  Van  Eyck  to  talk  to 
me  when  I  am  left  by  myself,"  said  Yvonne. 

Fitz-Simmons  forgot  to  say  anything,  so 
abashed  was  he  by  this  lack  of  insincerity. 

"Really,  aw,  that's  very  good,"  he  said, 
deciding  to  take  it  as  a  joke. 

Then,  as  Mrs.  Fenton  made  some  remark 
to  her  brother,  he  remembered  his  errand, 
and  said: 

"Miss  Brusseau,  may  I  take  you  into  the 
tea-room?" 

154 


FIRST  TIMES 

"She  promised  to  go  in  with  me,"  ex 
claimed  Van  Eyck,  dropping  a  sentence 
unfinished. 

Fitz-Simmons  moistened  his  red  lips  a 
little,  and  looked  at  Yvonne. 

4 '  I  did  not  promise,  but  I  will  go  with  Mr. 
Van  Eyck, ' '  said  Yvonne  serenely. 

And  she  smiled  graciously  upon  the  out 
raged  Younger  Son. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  not  long  before  Fitz- 
Simmons  called  at  the  Fentons'.  Yvonne 
was  there,  of  course,  and  before  he  left  he 
had  arranged  to  take  her  to  the  St.  Botolph 
Club  exhibition. 

The  afternoon  of  the  exhibit  arrived  and 
Yvonne  and  the  Younger  Son,  in  due  form, 
set  out  together. 

Fitz-Simmons  was  a  very  young  man  and 
a  very  impecunious  one.  He  had,  how 
ever,  expectations  and  a  family  tree.  Add 
to  this,  a  British  crudeness,  and  the  belief, 
into  which  some  gossip  had  fooled  him,  that 
Miss  Brusseau  was  an  heiress,  and  one  may 
understand  a  state  of  mind  susceptible  to  Miss 
Brusseau 's  naive  charms. 

They  had  been  standing  for  some  time  in 
front  of  a  purple  landscape  when  Yvonne 
said,  in  her  prettily  deliberate  English : 

155 


THE  LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

"Have  we  not  looked  at  it  assez  long 
temps?  Let  us  try  that  wheatfield  in  the 
corner. ' ' 

"You  don't  suppose  I've  been  looking  at 
the  picture,  Miss  Brusseau,  when  you  are 
beside  me." 

Yvonne's  brown  cheeks  crimsoned. 

' '  Sit  down  here  on  the  sofa.  I  want  to  say 
something  to  you." 

"I  beg  of  you!"  laughed  Yvonne,  "it  is 
perilous." 

"You're  the  only — "  the  Younger  Son's 
voice  was  thick  with  suppressed  eagerness, 
but  changed,  as  a  woman  with  an  hysterical 
aigretted  bonnet  took  the  remaining  third  of 
their  sofa.  She  was  conning  her  catalogue, 
but  had  one  ear  open  toward  the  interesting 
couple,  the  tall  and  very  fair  young  man 
with  the  aristocratic  bearing,  and  the  olive- 
skinned  girl  in  the  otter  cape. 

" — person  I've  met  who  likes  that 
Monet,"  he  finished,  coolly. 

"One  must  imagine  to  like  it,"  answered 
Yvonne. 

"Quite  so.  I  could  imagine  something 
else  and  like  that. ' ' 

The  hysterical  bonnet  had  risen,  and  was 
moving  toward  a  ' '  Portrait  of  a  Lady. ' ' 
156 


FIRST  TIMES 

"Vraiment,"  said  Yvonne,  "that  meadow 
with  the — what  do  you  call  it,  la  brouil- 
lard " 

"Never  mind,"  said  Fitz- Simmons,  laying 
his  hand  on  hers  behind  the  shelter  of  her 
big  muff  on  the  seat  between  them. 

"I  must  have  one  little  chance.  Miss 
Brusseau,  do  you — Don't  look  at  that  ugly 
old  peasant  woman  on  the  wall.  Look  at 
me!" 

The  hysterical  bonnet,  which  must  have 
had  remarkable  discrimination,  was  near 
them  again.  Its  owner  was  deeply  interested 
in  the  "French  Peasant-Woman," 

"Hove—" 

The  lavender  bonnet's  catalogue  fluttered 
unseasonably  to  the  floor. 

The  Younger  Son  started. 

" — a  good  effective  woman-annihilator, 
don't  you?" 

Yvonne  leaned  back  against  the  cushion, 
and  laughed  softly  for  a  whole  minute. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  she  moaned,  overcome  with 
mirth  by  the  tragedy  of  his  face. 

Then    they    sat    silent    for    some    time. 

Yvonne  proposed  going  into  the  water-color 

room,    but    Fitz-Simmons    was    sulky    and 

would  not  stir.     So  she  went  by  herself,  and 

157 


THE   LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

returning,  found  him  still  sitting  on  the 
sofa.  The  tragic  look  had  mitigated. 

"Miss  Brusseau, "  he  began  stiffly,  "I  wish 
to  avow  my  feelings — " 

Why  did  that  sudden  impulse  come  to 
Yvonne?  She  was  looking  at  the  "French 
Peasant- Woman."  The  impulse  came  to 
her,  and  she  acted  on  it. 

"She  looks  so  precisely  like  my  grand 
mother,"  said  Yvonne.  "My  grandmother 
wore  a  wadded  skirt  just  below  her  knees. 
She  never  had  a  hat  on  in  her  life. " 

"Wh-wh-what?"  exclaimed  the  English 
man.  His  grandmother  lived  in  a  Hall  and 
wrote  on  crested  paper. 

When  the  passion  for  disclosure  seizes  one, 
it  is  irresistible. 

Yvonne  was  dimly  thinking : 

"When  I  have  finished  telling  him,  I  will 
see  what  he  will  say." 

He  looked  at  her  fixedly  while  she  went 
on: 

"My  grandfather  never  slept  on  a  bed. 
And  I—" 

"And  you?"  he  repeated  automatically. 

" — I  never  wore  a  pair  of  gloves  till  I 
came  to  Spuyten  Kill." 

Yvonne  was  looking  at  the  man's  kid 
158 


FIRST   TIMES 

gloves  that  lay  in  glossy  propriety  beside  her 
muff. 

"I  never  heard  of  caviare  toast  before  a 
certain  dinner  two  weeks  ago.  I — ' ' 

The  consternation  on  the  Younger  Son's 
face  spurred  Yvonne  to  cap  the  climax. 

"I  have  often  danced  a  war-dance  with 
feathers  round  my  head. ' ' 

"You're  not  chaffing  me?"  he  faltered. 

"By  the  tomahawk  of  my  grandfather,  I 
swear  it  is  the  truth,"  said  Yvonne  solemnly. 

"May  I  ask  for  an  explanation  of  the 
riddle?"  demanded  the  young  man,  whose 
British  pride  began  to  bristle. 

"Je  suis  une  sauvagesse, "  said  Yvonne, 
repressing  a  laugh  with  such  vigor  that  her 
voice  trembled  impressively. 

"My  cousin  hunts  the  caribou  in  the  far 
north.  His  name  is  O-dil-o-ro-han-nin. " 

It  was  five  o'clock  and  the  attendants  were 
ostentatiously  putting  out  lights. 

They  rose  to  go.  The  Englishman's  bear 
ing  was  more  than  ever  patrician  as  he 
handed  Yvonne  into  a  coupe*. 

"What  was  it  you  began  to  say — when  I 
interrupted  you?"  asked  Yvonne. 

"Nothing  worth  while,  I  presume,"  he 
answered,  with  a  thankful  sobriety.  "Your 
159 


THE   LADY  OF   THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

fascinating  autobiography  has  driven  it  from 
my  head.  Really,  you  have  the  advantage 
over  us  people  whose  antecedents  are  so 
tiresomely  —  ah  —  unexceptionable.  Yes, 
drive  to  Thirty-fifth  Street,"  he  said  to  the 
coachman,  as  he  closed  the  door. 


160 


CHAPTER  IV 

MAKERS    OF    MANNERS 

A  six-acre  place  is  a  little  world  in  itself. 
Here  you  may  have  your  wilding  nook  by 
a  meadow  runnel  where  the  violets  enamel 
the  ground  in  the  spring  and  the  gardener's 
spade  in  the  lettuce-bed  strikes  the  ear  dim 
and  far-removed.  Or  on  that  secluded  bank 
by  the  fence  behind  the  small  apple-trees,  the 
wild  strawberries  grow  in  luscious  clusters 
glowing  deep  down  in  thicks  of  grass.  In 
autumn,  over  the  stone  wall  by  the  hickory 
trees,  the  woodbine  clambers,  reddening, 
and  the  choke-cherry  tree  in  an  angle  drips 
with  glistening  black  fruit.  There  is  the 
remote  upland,  where  the  timothy-grass  and 
feathery  wild  carrots  wave  and  the  meadow- 
lark  builds  its  nest  in  a  hollow. 

At  the  top  of  the  garden  the  amenities  of 
cultivation  decline  gradually  into  a  thicket- 
studded  wilderness.  The  trim  rows  of 
gooseberry  and  currant  bushes  dwindle  here 
to  a  scattering  vagrant  or  two,  ripening  late 
and  seldom  visited. 

161 


THE   LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

The  knot-grass  spreads  unmolested  be 
tween  the  tall  corn,  and  a  detached  grape- 
trellis  cherishes  its  pink,  long  clusters,  half 
forgotten. 

Up  here  Yvonne  could  sit  under  a  balsam- 
poplar  tree,  with  the  dry  yellow  grass  rust 
ling  about  her  knees,  and  forget  entirely  that 
within  calling  distance  was  a  rambling, 
white-painted  house  with  people  inside  in 
due  bondage  to  domestic  routine. 

Here  she  sat  one  mild  afternoon  in  late 
autumn,  book  in  hand,  but  absorbed  in  other 
thought.  Little  tufts  of  wool  from  the  tree 
flecked  the  grass  about  her.  The  tented  trees 
on  the  orchard  slopes,  globed  with  late-ripen 
ing  russets,  sheltered  her  from  occasional 
passers-by  on  the  highway.  She  seemed 
shut  off  from  human  life.  Only  now  and 
then  in  the  pauses  of  the  sighing  Indian 
summer,  came  the  click  of  Draper's  lawn 
mower  back  and  forth,  and  sonorous  puffs 
of  the  doctor's  directing  voice. 

Yvonne  had  occasionally  been  called  upon 
to  take  part  in  a  dramatic  representation  for 
Helen's  Shakespeare  Club.  To-day  she  was 
studying  for  a  rehearsal,  but  her  thoughts 
would  not  stay  with  Katherine. 

She  had  been  two  years  at  Orchardhurst 
162 


MAKERS  OF  MANNERS 

and  the  problem  of  life  had  begun  to  present 
itself  to  her.  The  Future  troubled  her. 
That  morning  she  had  received  a  letter  from 
Madame  Brusseau.  She  must  now  be  bien- 
instruite.  It  was  costing  beaucoup  d'argent. 
They  were  glad  she  was  so  well  content, 
but  it  was  time  to  think  of  marriage.  Poleon 
would  come  for  her  in  the  spring,  after  his 
return  from  the  moose-hunting  by  Lake  St. 
John, 

So  this  was  to  be  the  end  of  it  all.  After 
all  her  vague  hopes  and  visions,  La  Jeune 
Vallette  again  and  Poleon.  It  must  not  be. 
Yet  she  belonged  to  Poleon,  did  she  not? 
He  had  sent  her  money.  And  if  she 
returned  to  La  Jeune  Vallette  she  would 
marry  him.  She  had  promised  it.  A 
Tahourenche  is  true  to  her  word.  For  all 
Yvonne's  French  abandon  and  lightness  she 
was  a  Tahourenche'  and  a  Huron  still.  She 
was  bound  to  Poleon  if  she  returned  to  La 
Jeune  Vallette.  If  she  did  not  return,  she 
was  bound  to  him  still  by  the  many  gifts  he 
had  sent  her. 

They  should  all  be  paid  back  to  him.     Ah, 
Poleon,  you  do  not  know  what  a  power  of 
will  there  is  in  that  firm-set  little  mouth  and 
behind  those  dark,  unsmiling  eyes. 
163 


THE   LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

The  thought  of  Pierce  Willoughby  had 
come  to  Yvonne  many  times  of  late.  The 
thought  of  him  was  a  smoldering  ember. 
True,  she  had  refused  to  answer  his  letters, 
— there  were  three  unanswered — and  Madge, 
who  alone  knew  of  their  relation,  was 
pledged  to  secrecy.  He  did  not  know,  he 
could  not  dream,  where  she  was.  Still,  she 
was  resentful  at  his  long  silence. 

Perhaps  she  would  like  to  see  him  again. 
But  no,  he  had  left  her  once.  How  she 
would  disdain  him  now !  He  would  find  her 
different,  would  he  not? 

The  Van  Eycks  sometimes  spoke  of  him. 
He  wrote  books  and  his  name  was  some 
times  in  the  papers. 

How  well  she  had  loved  him  in  the  Bois 
des  Erables! 

Does  she  love  him  now? 

But  Yvonne  does  not  stop  to  analyze  her 
feelings.  A  Tahourenche"  is  not  introspec 
tive. 

The  Future  was  like  a  storm-cloud  above 
her  head  as  she  turned  to  her  book  ag-ain. 

"You  are  pensive,  little  one,"  said  a  low 
voice. 

Brockton  Van  Eyck  dropped  down  beside 
her. 

164 


MAKERS  OF  MANNERS 

"Helen  is  a  hard  task-mistress.  Would 
you  not  like  me  for  a  school-master  better?" 

His  slow  words  lingered  about  her  like  a 
caressing  breeze.  She  met  his  light  brown 
eyes  fixed,  half-admiringly,  half-playfully, 
upon  her. 

Perhaps  the  Future  had  left  its  shadow 
upon  Yvonne's  face.  That  moment  a  subtle 
something  passed  between  these  two. 
Brockton  realized  Yvonne  as  a  woman 
worthy  of  his  siege.  Yvonne  felt  Brockton 
as  a  man,  and  a  man  who  moved  her. 
A  thrill  is  untranslatable.  In  this  instance, 
coarsely  paraphrased,  with  them  both  it 
was  a  sense  of  relationship.  Whether  it  was 
to  be  love,  or  hate,  or  submission  and 
mastery,  neither  could  have  known. 

Yvonne  trembled  a  little,  as  the  thrill  sent 
its  darting  messages  through  her  blood. 

"I  am  sad,"  she  said,  meeting  Brockton's 
eyes,  "but  I  cannot  tell  why." 

This  was  true. 

"It  is  not  the  book?"  said  he,  putting  his 
hand  on  the  "Shakespeare  which  lay  on  her 
lap  and  letting  it  remain  there. 

"No." 

"Nor  Helen?" 

"Never.     Helen  is  my  dear  friend." 
165 


THE   LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

"Do  not  'dear  friends'  ever  make  one  sad?" 

"I  do  not  know." 

There  was  an  intimate  quality  about  these 
questions  that  half  puzzled,  half  pleased 
Yvonne. 

"It  is  not  I  that  make  you  sad?" 

Yvonne  laughed  at  the  unexpectedness  of 
the  idea. 

"Why  do  you  laugh?" 

Brockton  was  very  serious. 

"You,  how  could  you  make  me  sad?" 

The  aloofness  of  the  you  was  unmistakable. 

Brockton's  gravity  grew  deeper,  but  within 
himself  he  smiled. 

"You  laugh  because  you  say  to  yourself 
that  I  am  not  a  'dear  friend,'  and  therefore 
how  could  I  make  you  sad?" 

He  spoke  deliberately,  as  if  to  a  child. 

"Is  it  not  so?"  Yvonne  returned  quickly. 

Brockton  continued  with  a  sophistical 
gleam : 

"Helen  cannot  make  you  sad  because  she 
is  a  'dear  friend,'  and  I  cannot  make  you 
sad  because  I  am  not  a  'dear  friend. '  There 
fore  it  is  proved  you  are  not  sad." 

Yvonne,  quite  aware  of  the  sophistry,  as 
Brockton  knew  she  would  be,  laughed  more 
merrily  than  before. 

166 


MAKERS   OF  MANNERS 

"It  is  proved  I  am  not  sad,"  she  replied, 
"because  you  have  made  me  laugh." 

Brockton  returned  to  his  serious  look. 

"But  you  have  made  me  sad  because  you 
say  I  am  not  your  'dear  friend.'  That  is 
unkind. ' ' 

"I  did  not  wish  to  be  unkind.  I  am 
sorry. ' ' 

"Then  you  will  tell  me  of  what  you 
thought?" 

"Must  I?" 

"To  prove  your  repentance." 

"Then  I  will,  Mr.  Van  Eyck,"  she  said 
simply,  a  little  resolve  suddenly  forming 
itself  in  her  brain. 

"If  Helen  is  Helen,  I  am  Brockton,"  he 
said,  moving  round  in  front  of  her  and 
lying,  half-reclined,  on  the  ground  so  that  he 
might  look  her  in  the  face  as  she  talked. 

Brockton  had  never  noticed  before  how 
agreeable  it  was  to  watch  her. 

"Well?" 

He  moved  a  little  nearer  her  and  played 
with  a  fold  in  her  skirt. 

Yvonne  told  him  the  story  of  Willoughby 
and  herself.     She    named  no  names.     She 
spoke  of  herself  as  another.    Brockton  under 
stood  better  than  Yvonne  imagined. 
167 


THE   LADY  OF   THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

"Did  he  love  the  girl  if  he  left  her?  and 
she  would  have  gone  with  him!" 

"Cold-hearted  fool!"  exclaimed  Brockton. 
"By  George,  Yvonne,  he  did  not  love  y — 
her  as  I  should — love  a  girl. ' ' 

"Or  he  was  not  truthful?  He  deceived 
her  and  did  not  love  her  at  all?" 

"So  much  the  better  for  me.  If  he  had 
loved  as  he  ought,  what  chance  should  I 
have  now?" 

Brockton,  somewhat  doubtful,  was  risking 
a  bold  venture. 

Yvonne's  pale,  dark  cheeks  were  tinged 
like  a  newly  opened  hickory-nut. 

"You  do  not  think  it  was  I?" 

"No,"  said  Van  Eyck  with  ready  men 
dacity,  "but  if  it  had  been  you  and  I  had 
been  he — lucky  dog — Yvonne,  there  would 
have  been  a  different  story." 

The  girl's  eyes  dropped  under  the  bold 
amber  gaze. 

"But  I  am  glad  he  lied,  f or  y — she  may 
find  a  man  to  love  her  more  truly?" 

Brockton  turned  his  face  away  from 
Yvonne's,  as  if  with  a  sudden  overstress  of 
emotion. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  made  a  few 
paces  up  and  down  in  the  grass. 

168 


MAKERS  OF  MANNERS 

Yvonne  sat  bewildered  tinder  the  poplar 
tree,  pulling  apart  a  tuft  of  wool  that  had 
drifted  to  her  lap. 

"I  have  interrupted  your  study."  Van 
Eyck's  voice  was  changed  and  dry.  "Let 
me  help  you  a  little.  I  will  be  Henry  to 
your  Katherine. ' ' 

Yvonne  gathered  herself  together  with  an 
effort  and  took  up  her  lines.  Her  reserve 
of  self-control  was  great  and  she  did  not 
show  by  a  flutter  the  agitation  that  was 
within. 

"Your  majesty  shall  mock  at  me.  I  can 
not  speak  your  England. ' ' 

Brockton  was  piqued  at  her  calmness. 

"O  fair  Katherine,  if  you  will  love  me 
soundly  with  your  French  heart,  I  will  be 
glad  to  hear  you  confess  it  brokenly  with 
your  English  tongue.  Do  you  like  me, 
Kate?" 

Yvonne  steadied  herself  before  his  glow 
ing  look. 

"Pardonnez-moi.  I  cannot  tell  vat  is — 
like  me. ' ' 

So  the  royal  love-making  went  on, 
infused  on  Brockton's  side  with  more  of 
Van  Eyck  than  was  compatible  with  King 
Henry  V. 

169 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

Yvonne,  however,  was  so  bland  to  his 
innuendo  that  he  decided  his  former  role 
was  preferable. 

' '  Let  us  shut  up  the  book  and  talk  a  little 
more,  Yvonne.  La  grande  passion  in 
Shakespeare  does  not  interest  as  much  as 
your  eyes. ' ' 

"Your  majeste  have  fausse  French 
enough  to  deceive  de  most  sage  demoiselle 
dat  is  en  France,"  Yvonne  continued 
demurely. 

Brockton,  glancing  down  the  page, 
decided  that  he  would  continue.  It  was 
worth  the  experiment,  at  least. 

"Den  it  shall  also  content  me." 

Yvonne  could  not  resist  giving  a  shy 
glance,  provoquante,  at  the  handsome  face 
bending  over  the  book. 

"  'Then  I  will  kiss  your  lips,  Kate.' 
Yvonne!  but  I  must,  you  know,  to  carry 
out  the  part. ' ' 

How  near  the  face  was  to  hers !  Should 
she  let  him  master  her,  or  should  she  have 
the  mastery  of  him?  The  kiss  of  surrender 
in  the  Bois  -des  Erables  rose  before  her. 
How  unlike  that  face  with  its  stern  gravity, 
to  this,  with  the  mocking  smile  upon  it ! 

"The  kiss  is  not  necessary,"  said  Yvonne. 
170 


MAKERS  OF  MANNERS 

"It  is  most  desirable,"  answered  the  man, 
still  smiling. 

Then  he  rose  to  his  feet  abruptly  and  left 
her.  Did  he  see  that  cold  Memory  standing 
between  them? 

He  had  the  air  of  one  who  has  tired  of  a 
bauble  and  tosses  it  down  in  disgust. 

As  he  sauntered  down  the  grass-grown 
road,  toward  the  house,  his  long  shadow 
stretched  behind  him  in  the  level  gold  of 
the  setting  sun. 


CHAPTER  V 

TRUTH  AND  UNTRUTH 

More  potent  than  disparity  in  intellectual, 
emotional  or  racial  point  of  view  is  disparity 
in  the  moral  point  of  view.  It  is  a  vital 
separating  force  between  two  persons  in 
other  respects  akin. 

There  was  this  chasm  between  Helen  and 
Brockton  Van  Eyck.  By  the  same  rigid 
standard  which  regulated  Helen's  own  life 
did  she  judge  others.  Her  estimate  of 
Brockton  was  perhaps  more  immitigable 
that  he  was  her  brother.  One's  personal 
responsibility  for  one's  blood-relations  has 
often  this  rasping  effect.  It  might  be  noticed 
that  the  brother  and  sister  had  never  owned 
an  intimate  friendship  in  common,  which 
is  a  significant  sign. 

During  the  two  years  of  Yvonne's  stay  at 
Orchardhurst,  she  and  Helen  had  been 
strongly  drawn  toward  each  other.  The 
serene  steadiness,  the  individual  reserve  in 
the  one  found  its  counterpart  in  the  passion 
ate  freedom,  the  racial  reserve  in  the  other. 
173 


THE   LADY  OP  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

But  as  Brockton  and  Yvonne's  enigmatic 
relationship  ripened,  Helen  and  Yvonne  drew 
apart.  Helen  was  consciously  sorrowful,  and 
Yvonne,by  turns,  puzzled  and  then  forgetful. 

Brockton's  apathy  had  at  last  thoroughly 
been  awakened  by  the  mingled  shyness  and 
daring  of  the  little  French- Huron  girl.  Her 
capricious  gaiety  and  indifference  had  all  the 
effect  of  the  most  finished  coquetry. 

Yvonne  was  secretive,  as  shy  of  expression 
as  any  of  her  forebears  that  ever  tiptoed  in 
silence  along  a  dusky  trail.  Her  frankly 
confidential  manner,  her  airy  vivacity  that 
had  won  the  heart  of  responsive  friends, 
were  only  surface  froth  upon  a  stream  that 
bubbled  up  here  and  there  into  the  light  but 
had  its  subterranean  channel  steadfastly 
underground.  She  had  not  yet  found  her 
self.  This  gave  her  the  haunting  pensive- 
ness  that  touched  Helen's  heart  and  filled 
it  with  anxiety.  Helen  distrusted  Brock 
ton's  gallantries.  She  discovered  in  him  a 
dangerous  capacity  of  fascination.  In  fact, 
he  had  just  discovered  it  himself. 

But  the  unfathomable  look  that  had  crept 
into  Yvonne's  eyes  was  the  look  of  a  soul 
that  does  not  know  itself. 

So  the  winter  wore  away.      Always  the 


TRUTH  AND   UNTRUTH 

shadow  of  the  Future  darkened  Yvonne's 
horizon.  Many  a  time  she  wept,  kneeling  in 
her  room  before  her  blue-robed  statuette 
of  the  Virgin.  Many  a  time,  at  early  mass 
in  the  little  village  church,  after  the 
befeathered  servant-girls  had  gone  out, 
Yvonne  poured  out  her  soul  before  the 
folded  hands  of  the  Christ.  But  no  help 
came.  The  excitement  of  Brockton's  low 
whispers  and  gazing  eyes,  of  the  dulcet  tete- 
a-tetes  by  the  library  fire  when  the  family 
had  gone  to  the  Club,  the  tantalizing  pas 
sages  on  the  stairs,  as  he  waylaid  her  of  an 
evening,  all  these  were  a  stimulant  to  her 
from  day  to  day. 

Brockton  thought  that  he  was  amusing 
himself.  Little  did  he  dream  of  the  long 
future  when  Yvonne's  image  would  be 
always  before  his  eyes. 

In  the  spring,  Yvonne  was  to  spend  a 
week  with  Mrs.  Fenton  in  town.  It  was  a 
keenly  anticipated  occasion.  Madge  was  to 
give  a  dinner  and  the  French  Consul  was  to 
be  invited  and  Yvonne  was  to  wear  a  yellow 
gown.  It  was  a  present  from  Madge  and 
seemed  to  Yvonne  a  bit  of  the  other  world. 

She  remembered  how,  long  ago,  when  she 
was  a  child  by  the  St.  Gabriel,  she  had 
175 


THE  LADY   OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

waded  out  to  pull  great  bunches  of  the  wild 
fleur-de-lis  and  the  yellow  water-lilies.  She 
had  sat  under  the  firs  with  the  gorgeous 
blooms  in  her  lap  and  wondered  if  anywhere 
in  the  world  there  were  little  girls  who  wore 
clothes  such  as  those,  shaded  purples  like 
the  sky  before  a  storm,  and  a  yellow  sash, 
like  the  golden  heart  of  the  flower.  Or  were 
there  ladies  clothed  superbly  in  yellow,  a 
glory  that  would  stand  out  all  around  them 
on  the  floor,  as  the  great  thick  lustrous  yellow 
petals  swell  out  on  the  water? 

That  impossible  fancy  had  come  true  and 
here  was  she,  with  a  gown  as  yellow  as  the 
lily  and  as  full  of  shimmering  lights  as  the 
flag-flower  petals. 

As  the  crowning  touch  to  this  bliss,  Pierce 
Willoughby  was  to  witness  her  triumph. 

He  had  just  written  to  Madge  that  he 
was  to  be  in  town  and  she  had  bidden  him 
to  the  dinner. 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  see  him  again.  I 
wonder  if  he  would  know  me,"  cried 
Yvonne,  her  eyes  dancing  with  excitement. 

"He  would  know  you  out  of  a  thousand, 
child.  You  have  not  changed  as  much  as 
you  think. ' ' 

"I  have  not  changed  at  all.  I  know  more, 
176 


TRUTH   AND  UNTRUTH 

but  I  am  still  the  same,  the  very  same,  as 
at  Jeune  Vallette. " 

Helen  and  Yvonne  were  dressing  together 
before  the  dinner.  Eliza  had  come  in  from 
Spuyten  Kill  with  Helen  and  was  acting  as 
lady's  maid  for  the  occasion. 

"Well,  what  do  we  think  of  'Peter  Ever- 
sham'?"  asked  Helen. 

Madge  had  bought  Willoughby's  new  book 
and  the  two  girls  had  been  reading  it  all  the 
afternoon. 

"It  sounds  like  him." 

"You  speak  as  if  you  knew  him,  child." 

"  I  do  know  him, ' '  said  Yvonne,  one  of  her 
sudden  moods  taking  hold  of  her.  "He 
spent  the  summer  at  Jeune  Vallette.  He 
said  he  loved  me  and  then  left  me. ' ' 

She  was  talking  in  French  now,  but  in  the 
most  casual  tone  of  voice,  as  if  lovings  and 
leavings  were  every-day  occurrences  with 
her. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  cried  Helen,  slow 
to  grasp  so  startling  a  confession. 

"That  is  what  I  mean.  " 

4 'And  you  loved  him?" 

"I  told  him  so." 

"Then  I  despise  him,"  said  Helen  with 
deliberate  intensity. 


THE   LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

"Why  don't  you  say  something,  Yvonne? 
Do  not  you  hate  him?" 

"He  was  a  cold-hearted  fool,"  said 
Yvonne  lingeringly,  in  unconscious  repeti 
tion  of  Brockton. 

Her  foreign  accent  relieved  this  little 
speech,  in  some  degree,  of  its  baldness. 
But  her  heart  smote  her.  So  he  was 
insincerity  and  Brockton  was  truth!  She 
could  not  help  but  compare  the  two  men. 
Nevertheless,  it  had  taken  Willoughby 
five  minutes  to  say  what  Van  Eyck  had 
been  about  a  year  and  had  not  quite  said 
yet.  So  this  is  sincerity  and  that  was  un 
truth. 

"I  was  only  a  child,"  said  Yvonne,  self- 
compassionately,  "but  I  suffered." 

Eliza  Blodgett  went  stolidly  about  the 
room,  with  her  square  English  figure  and 
well-trained  tread,  arranging  things,  while 
the  two  girls  talked  together  in  French. 

"Eliza,  what  was  that  book  you  lent  me 
last  week  when  I  was  ill?" 

"Do  you  mean  'Wooed,  not  Wedded, '  Miss 
Brusseau?" 

The  woman's  face  lighted  up  as  she 
turned  toward  Yvonne.  The  girl,  with  her 
dark  face,  foreign  ways  and  gentle  courtesy 
178 


toward  Eliza,  had  come  to  be  a  shrine  before 
which  all  her  flowers  of  romance  were 
secretly  laid. 

"That  tells  the  story,  Helen.  He  is  a 
grand  gentleman  and  she  the  simple  country 
maiden.  He  plays  with  her,  and  then, 
promising  to  return,  leaves  her. 

"How  does  it  end,  Eliza?" 

"Sir  Bertram  marries  the  Lady  Selina, 
Miss  Brusseau, "  said  the  woman,  with  eager 
detail.  "She  is  false  to  'im  and  at  last  'e 
returns  to  seek  the  little  love  of  'is  youth, 
and  the  poor  gentleman  finds  she  has  died 
of  a  broken  'eart.  It  is  a  grand  book  at  the 
h'end,  Miss  Van  Eyck.  I  could  ha'  wrung 
my  'andkerchief  out  three  times  a-mopping 
uv  my  h'eyes  h'over  it." 

"The  broken  heart  might  be  exchanged 
in  your  story, ' '  said  Helen. 

"How  is  that?" 

"He  returns;  you  have  not  died;  he  woos 
again; — you  may  supply  the  denouement, 
Yvonne. ' ' 

' '  Charming ! ' '  exclaimed  the  girl,  dimpling 
with  mischief. 

"You  will  lead  him  on,  Yvonne,  and 
then—" 

"And  then  I  am  implacable." 
179 


THE   LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

"That  is  where  the  Indian  blood  comes  in, 
eh?" 

Helen  touched  Yvonne  under  the  chin. 

"I  don't  deny  it.     I  have  the  Huron  idea 
of  heaven,  torturing  my  enemies." 

The  gay  little  laugh  wreathed  the  grim 
idea  with  garlands. 

"And  still,"  judicial  Helen  said,  "he  first 
gave  you  the  cup  of  life  to  taste." 

"And  took  it  away  when  I  had  put  my 
lips  to  the  brim, ' ' 

"Perhaps,"     Helen    relented,     "he    was 
sincere  and  would  have  returned  to  you — " 

"Never!" 

"And  would  have  lived  the  simple  life  he 
believed  in — " 

"Pah!"  came  from  Yvonne. 

"And  would  have  outgrown  it  and  brought 
you  back  to  the  world  with  him — ' ' 

"Trop  de    badinage,"  laughed    Yvonne. 
"Stop,  Hel&ie." 

She  went  to  the  mirror  to  survey  her  com 
pleted  toilet.  The  yellow  dress  was  heavy 
and  lustrous,  with  a  barbaric  touch  of  dusky 
purple  about  the  low-cut  neck.  It  brought 
out  the  brown  tints  in  her  skin  and 
emphasized  her  natural  pallor.  She  sur 
veyed  herself  with  dissatisfaction. 
180 


TRUTH  AND  UNTRUTH 

"It  extinguishes  me,"  she  said,  looking 
backward  at  the  reflection  of  herself. 

She  faced  round  again. 

"Too  much  la  Huronne!"  she  exclaimed. 

Her  face  suddenly  took  on,  to  herself,  the 
look  of  Tissette  Gros-Louys.  It  seemed 
brown  and  narrow,  with  bird-of-prey  eyes 
and  too  white  teeth.  Shaking  herself  free 
of  the  thought,  she  pinned  a  purple  fleur-de- 
lis  in  the  hair  that  crowned  her  head.  Helen 
had  brought  a  bunch  of  them  from 
Orchardhurst  that  afternoon. 

"Now  you  will  do,"  she  said,  dusting 
some  powder  over  her  cheeks,  and  adjusting 
her  expression  to  her  costume.  It  was 
wonderful  how  the  uncompromising  Indian 
look  had  given  way  before  the  new  resolve. 
It  was  thus  that  she  went  downstairs. 

The  French  consul  was  there ;  also  Fitz- 
Simmons,  through  the  death  of  his  father 
and  elder  brother  become  Lord  Alstonmeade ; 
Brockton  Van  Eyck,  the  traces  of  last 
night's  dissipation  immaculately  groomed 
away;  Tom  Barry,  the  English  actor;  and 
a  group  of  lovely  women.  There  was 
Cornelia  Livingston,  short,  plump  and 
piquant,  who  did  the  petite  blonde  to  per 
fection;  Helen,  slim  and  erect,  with  thin 

181 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

lips  well-curved,  and  straight  eyebrows 
meeting  above  keen  gray  eyes;  Elizabeth 
Dawson,  whose  father  was  a  senator,  and 
whose  sweet  blue  eyes  and  ready  smile  had 
served  her  father  many  a  turn,  they  said,  in 
Washington;  and  Yvonne  Brusseau,  the 
purple  fleur-de-lis  in  the  satiny  loops  of  her 
black  hair. 

A  subdued  murmur  of  pleasure  arose  when 
word  was  passed  that  Pierce  Willoughby 
was  to  be  a  guest  that  evening,  for  every 
one  was  interested  to  meet  the  author  of 
"Peter  Eversham,  Reformer."  Pierce 
Willoughby  was  announced  and  Yvonne 
Brusseau  watched  the  entrance  of  her  old 
friend  and  lover.  She  saw  a  tall,  well-knit 
young  man,  close-shaven,  the  clear  forward 
glance  of  the  eyes  and  the  firm  mouth  and 
chin  showing  something  of  the  strength 
that  bade  fair  to  make  him  a  leader  in  the 
political  and  civic  life  of  the  western 
metropolis.  His  forehead  and  eyes  were  in 
such  notable  contrast  with  the  lower  part  of 
his  face  that  people  often  remarked,  referring 
to  the  one  and  the  other:  "There  lies  his 
failure,  and  there,  his  success."  He  had 
the  eyes  of  an  enthusiast,  a  dreamer,  while 
his  mouth  and  chin,  resolute  almost  to 
182 


TRUTH  AND  UNTRUTH 

hardness,  belonged  to  the  aggressive  man 
of  action. 

All  that  Pierce  Willoughby  saw  in  Mrs. 
Fenton's  drawing-room,  all  that  he  ever 
remembered  of  his  first  entrance  there,  was 
a  shimmer  of  yellow,  a  stately  inclination  of 
a  little  dark  head,  crowned  with  a  purple 
flag-flower;  and  a  pair  of  black  eyes,  that 
veiled  their  glances  as  they  met  his  own. 

Yvonne's  place  at  dinner  was  next  to  the 
Frenchman,  Amadis  de  Rocelles.  The 
Consul  thought  she  had  worn  the  fleur-de- 
lis  in  compliment  to  France.  Willoughby 
thought  it  in  memory  of  La  Jongleuse.  Both 
men  were  puzzled,  and  both  pleased. 
Willoughby  noticed  at  table  that  his  friend 
Madge  had  become,  in  the  five  years  since 
he  had  seen  her,  a  little  more  gracious,  a 
little  more  reposeful,  but  with  the  same 
direct,  spontaneous  speech,  unassuming 
dignity,  and  sparkle  of  magnetism  that  made 
a  circle  of  good  fellowship  of  the  people 
whom  she  might  have  about  her.  He  sat 
between  Helen  Van  Eyck  and  Elizabeth 
Dawson,  and  opposite  him  was  Yvonne,  a 
picture  that  he  never  forgot.  Conversation 
glanced  from  topic  to  topic ;  Tom  ^Barry's 
new  play  was  mentioned,  which  he  was  to 
183 


THE  LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

bring  out  in  the  fall ;  the  prospect  for  the 
intercollegiate  boat  race;  a  New  York 
society  woman's  venture  into  millinery  and 
the  new  police-commissioner's  stand,  on 
which  Willoughby  spoke,  as  he  had  come 
to  the  city  to  look  up  that  and  kindred 
subjects. 

Willoughby  held  the  attention  of  the  table 
for  a  few  moments  while  he  talked  about 
civic  conditions  in  the  west.  He  assumed 
the  unnecessary  authority  that  a  young  man 
sometimes  will  among  new  acquaintances. 

"The  indifference  of  the  educated,"  he 
said,  "is  more  sinister  than  the  corruption 
of  the  masses." 

His  earnestness  jarred  a  little  on  the 
flutter  of  dinner-talk.  Socialistic  ideas  had 
not  penetrated  thoroughly  into  polite  society, 
and  though  Willoughby  had  not  propounded 
any  radical  theory,  there  was  something 
uncompromising  about  his  tone.  It  smacked 
of  social  documents. 

"We  Americans,"  said  Fenton,  as 
relevantly  as  he  thought  best,  "should 
study  London  municipal  management. 
The  city  boss  is  our  dangerous  element." 

"True,"  said  Barry  lightly,  "but  pictur 
esque.  Our  municipal  politics  are  dull  and 
184 


TRUTH  AND   UNTRUTH 

tame  compared  with  the  drama  that  Tam 
many  offers. ' ' 

"I  agree  with  you,  Mr.  Barry,"  said 
Elizabeth  Dawson,  who  did  not  quite  get  the 
difference  between  municipal  politics  and 
diplomatic  teas  in  Washington.  "These 
attache's  with  curled  mustaches  and  foreign 
ambassadors  with  gorgeous  clothes.  Don't 
you  like  it,  Mr.  Fenton?" 

"Immense!"  assented  Fenton  heartily. 

Everybody  laughed  and  the  conversation 
drifted  off  again,  till  Willoughby  brought  it 
back  by  telling  a  story  of  a  reform  candi 
date's  defeat  through  the  assistance  which 
he  accepted  from  the  head  of  a  well-known 
temperance  organization.  This  malaprop 
reinforcement  ruined  his  chances  with  the 
laboring  people.  After  the  election,  the 
supposed  coadjutor  received  a  lucrative 
appointment  from  the  successful  candidate 
and  upon  being  reproached  by  the  defeated 
reformer  for  his  change  of  base,  replied  with 
a  sneer: 

"I  was  working  for  my  man  all  along. " 

It  was  a  striking  story  and  Willoughby 
told  it  well.     It  illustrated  the  crying  need 
of  business  acumen  among  those  who  enter 
political  life  to  purify  it. 
185 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

"That's  an  artistic  tale,"  said  Helen  Van 
Eyck,  when  he  had  finished. 

Perhaps  she  knew  the  comment  would 
displease  him.  He  had  told  the  story  not 
in  the  dilettante  but  in  the  good-citizen 
spirit.  There  was  something  about  him  that 
roused  her  antagonism.  Whether  it  were 
his  crudeness,  his  egotism  or  his  apostolic 
severity,  she  would  not  have  been  able  to  say. 

"It's  more  than  a  good  story,  Miss  Van 
Eyck,  it  proves  something." 

"What  does  it  prove,  Mr.  Willoughby?" 

Willoughby  glanced  at  the  questioner  a 
moment  and  decided  that  it  would  not  be 
worth  his  while  to  answer  her  seriously. 

"That  a  gentleman  should  keep  out  of 
politics,  perhaps,"  he  replied,  and  then 
turned  to  Elizabeth  Dawson  with  some  light 
remark. 

Helen  felt  that  Willoughby  had  been 
taking  her  estimate,  and  resented  it. 

They  were  speaking  afterward  of  a  college 
man  who  had  achieved  several  degrees  but 
had  been  in  practical  life  a  notable  failure. 

"Don't  you  think,  Mr.  Willoughby,  that 
most  of  us  are  educated  beyond  our  ca 
pacity?"  said  Helen,  fixing  her  serious  gaze 
on  Pierce. 

186 


TRUTH  AND   UNTRUTH 

"Beyond  what  is  good  for  us?"  he  ques 
tioned  tentatively. 

"Civilization  was  once  your  bete  noir,  Mr. 
Willoughby.  Are  you  still  afraid  of  it?" 
asked  Yvonne,  leaning  forward. 

Her  speech  had  the  foreign  flavor  that  lent 
piquancy  to  what  she  said. 

Pierce  was  surprised  at  this  allusion  to 
the  past,  but  took  it  as  a  challenge  and 
replied: 

"The  theory  I  used  to  hold,  Miss 
Brusseau,  I  have  found  out  this  evening  is 
not  of  universal  application. ' ' 

In  the  drawing-room  after  dinner  Tom 
Barry  had  been  mimicking  a  "negro" 
minstrel  whose  performance  he  had  seen  in 
a  London  music  hall.  Under  cover  of  the 
laugh  that  followed,  Willoughby  said  to 
Yvonne  in  a  low  voice : 

"Yvonne,  have  we  nothing  to  say  to  each 
other?" 

"Of  what  should  we  speak?"  she  said  in 
her  quietest  tone. 

"Have  you  forgotten  the  day-dream  by 
the  St.  Gabriel?  I  have  not.  And  the — 
all  the  rest.  And  you — you  carry  with  you 
this  evening  a  living  memory,  Yvonne. ' ' 

He  looked  at  the  flower  in  her  hair. 
187 


THE   LADY  OF   THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

She  took  it  out  and  let  the  limp,  crepy 
petals  curve  caressingly  over  her  fingers. 

"Oh,  la  Jongleuse!"  she  exclaimed,  with 
such  a  merry  laugh  that  Pierce  understood 
all  at  once  how  little  he  had  understood 
the  Yvonne  of  Vallette.  Amadis  de 
Rocelles  cast  his  jaded  eyes  over  to  the  divan 
and  envied  the  man  who  could  summon  such 
a  delicious  ripple.  Tom  Barry  wished  he 
could  hire  a  laugh  like  that  for  his  play, 
"The  Foolish  Virgins." 

"I  must  see  you  again,"  Pierce  went  on 
rather  incoherently,  but  feeling  that  each 
moment  with  her  might  be  the  last.  "It  is 
rare  good  fortune  to  have  you  here." 

"Yet,  if  you  had  your  way,  I  should  still 
be  there." 

Yvonne's  tone  and  look  were  reproachful. 
Pierce  waited  a  moment  for  the  arch  smile 
that  he  thought  would  follow.  But  Yvonne 
did  not  smile. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  gravely. 

"Are  you  glad  or  sorry  that  I  am  here?" 
she  asked. 

"I  am  glad  and  I  am  sorry,"  he  returned. 
*'If  I  knew  what  difference  it  would  make 
with  me,  I  should  know  which  to  be. ' ' 

He    was    looking    at  her  intently.      She 

188 


TRUTH  AND  UNTRUTH 

flushed  and  rose  to  meet  Madge,  who  was 
approaching  them.  They  had  asked  for  a 
dramatic  reading  from  Miss  Brusseau.  She 
demurred  smilingly,  saying: 

"I  am  afraid  of  that  Mr.  Barry." 

She  finally  chose  the  poison-scene  from 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  where  Juliet  imagines 
the  horrors  of  the  tomb.  Tom  Barry's  face 
assumed  an  expression  of  polite  interest; 
Brockton's  of  undisguised  admiration. 

De  Rocelles,  as  Yvonne  took  her  place  on 
a  low  stool  between  portieres,  ran  a  con 
noisseur's  eye  over  the  details  of  her  costume 
and  figure. 

"Do  you  approve?"  whispered  Tom 
Barry,  with  the  merest  suggestion  of  a 
twinkle  in  his  sad,  humorous  eyes. 

Yvonne  interpreted  Juliet's  emotion  some 
what  in  the  conventional  way,  not  over 
doing  it,  however,  as  so  many  actresses  have 
done. 

Tom  Barry's  expression  changed  from 
polite  to  genuine  interest  and  when  she 
finished  he  exclaimed,  meeting  her  eyes, 
which  sought  his : 

"Capital." 

Yvonne  paled  a  little.  Madge  saw  that 
she  was  deeply  moved  by  the  commendation. 
189 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG  -  FLOWERS 

Before  he  left  the  Fentons'  that  night, 
Willoughby  decided  that  the  police  business 
would  require,  instead  of  two  days,  two 
weeks  of  investigation. 


190 


CHAPTER  VI 

A    SPRING    WALK 

Van  Eyck  and  Willoughby  were  leaving  the 
house  together  after  the  dinner.  They  had 
been  old-time  neighbors  for  many  years,  but 
never  chums.  Pierce  Willoughby  had  been 
a  serious  lad.  The  burden  of  life  was  thrust 
early  upon  his  shoulders,  and  he  had  found 
little  in  common  with  the  boyish  dilettante- 
ism  of  Van  Eyck.  But  as  they  walked  down 
the  street  they  felt  that  sense  of  intimacy 
which  a  renewal  of  old  relations  will  some 
times  bring.  If  one  meets  a  fellow-towns 
man  in  a  foreign  land,  one  grasps  him  by 
the  hand  like  a  dear  comrade.  Also,  each 
had  perceived  in  the  other's  bearing  toward 
Yvonne  a  curious  something  which  was  as 
obvious  as  it  was  indefinite. 

Brockton  concluded  that  Yvonne's  unique 
grace  had  made  an  impression,  and  he  was 
rather  pleased.  Just  as  in  the  fall,  her  little 
triumph  at  the  tea  had  first  awakened  him 
to  her  charm,  so  now  Willoughby's  evident 
191 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG  -  FLOWERS 

interest  added  new  piquancy  to  the  game  he 
was  playing. 

"Our  little  protege*  has  hit  it  off  pretty 
well, ' '  he  remarked,  lightly. 

"Indeed,  she  has  wonderfully  developed," 
answered  Willoughby,  taking  for  granted 
that  the  mere  fact  of  their  previous  acquaint 
anceship  was  known. 

"Oho,"  thought  Brockton, piecing  together 
the  fragments  of  Yvonne's  story.  "It  was 
you,  then?" 

He  was  quick  to  know  that  "cold-hearted 
fool"  had  been  misapplied.  His  perception 
of  character  was  as  keen  as  Helen's,  but 
unlike  her,  he  would  not  regret  the  misappli 
cation.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  a  little 
glad. 

The  two  men  continued,  touching  casually 
on  current  affairs  in  politics  and  literature. 

"Run  out  to  Orchardhurst  before  you  go," 
said  Van  Eyck,  cordially,  as  they  parted  at 
a  street  corner.  Willoughby  resolved  that 
he  would,  and  when  the  more  urgent  invita 
tion  came  from  Mrs.  Van  Eyck  he  eagerly 
accepted. 

It  was  one  of  those  youthful  spring  days 
when  the  trees  are  misted  as  if  a  green  spray 
had  broken  over  them,  and  the  blossomy  tips 
192 


A  SPRING  WALK 

of  birches  and  alders  are  a  delicate  intima 
tion  of  the  fires  of  autumn.  Underneath 
the  austere  trunks  of  the  forest  trees  the 
footling  oaks  were  as  rosy  and  velvety  as  a 
baby's  cheek.  By  the  released  blue  of  April 
waters  the  bodiless  chimes  of  hylodes 
twinkled  widely. 

It  was  one  of  Yvonne's  holy-days,  and  she 
was  going  to  church,  the  little  church  away 
down  among  the  crooked  village  streets  on 
the  sandy  bluffs  above  the  river.  Will- 
oughby  was  at  Orchardhurst,  and  four  of 
them  were  taking  the  walk  together,  a  good 
three  miles  from  the  doctor's  house  on  its 
hill-slope. 

Spuyten  Kill  lies  windingly  among  its 
hills,  with  its  one  broad  road  running  north 
and  south  between  overarching  trees  and 
walled  estates,  breadths  of  billowy  lawns 
and  porticoed  stately  houses.  Between 
these  and  the  river  are  the  steep  village 
streets,  lined  with  shops  and  little,  old- 
fashioned,  white-fenced  houses  of  plain 
folk,  and  above  stretches  the  undulating  hill- 
country.  Long  country  roads  twist  and 
climb  eastward  past  the  mile-long  boundaries 
of  manorial  owners,  woodland  patches,  rich 
swamps  and  untenanted  hills. 
193 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG- FLOWERS 

It  was  a  country  that  Willoughby  knew 
and  loved.  It  moved  him  intensely  to  think 
that  the  girl  he  loved  had  become  part  owner 
with  him  of  this  cherished  loveliness. 

The  three  miles  stretched  most  alluringly 
before  him  as  they  passed  out  of  the  gate 
and  began  to  descend  the  long  hill  toward 
the  broad  village  street.  But  as  perverse 
chance  would  have  it,  Brockton  strode  for 
ward  by  Yvonne,  and  Willoughby  was  left  to 
walk  with  Helen  and  watch  Yvonne's  black 
hair  and  the  nodding  "yellow  daisies"  on 
her  hat,  or  her  side  glances  toward  her  com 
panion  in  the  snatches  of  their  animated 
talk. 

He  had  even  an  insane  desire  to  know 
what  they  were  saying,  and  an  entirely 
unreasonable  irritation  with  Helen  for  a 
remark  interrupting  a  laugh  of  Yvonne's 
that  had  just  drifted  back. 

It  is  hard  to  get  away  from  one's  youth 
ful  conceptions.  Willoughby 's  memory  of 
Helen  was  of  a  silent  child  who  did  not  give 
herself  to  others.  Somehow,  he  did  not 
expect  to  come  into  contact  with  her.  There 
is  nothing  duller  than  intercourse  without 
contact.  As  for  Helen,  she  attributed  Will- 
oughby's  undisguised  preoccupation  to  his 
194 


A  SPRING  WALK 

sense  of  self-importance  and  this  strength 
ened  her  prejudice  against  him. 

"At  the  top  of  that  slide  of  rock,"  said 
Willoughby,  pointing  ahead,  "and  just  under 
the  fence,  there  used  to  be  a  little  colony  of 
dark  purple  long-stemmed  violets.  I  am 
going  to  look  for  them  now." 

He  sprang  up  the  road-side  bank. 

"Just  as  they  were  ten  years  ago,"  he 
exclaimed,  bringing  back  a  cluster  in  his 
hands. 

He  divided  the  flowers  between  Yvonne 
and  Helen.  As  he  handed  them  to  Yvonne, 
Helen  heard  him  say : 

"Do  you  remember  the  purple-lined  white 
August  violets  by  the  spring  in  the  maple- 
wood?" 

"The  violets  that  would  have  died  in  the 
Rue  Fabrique?"  she  answered,  remember- 
ingly,  teasingly. 

As  their  eyes  met  Helen  caught  herself 
watching  them  and  reflecting: 

"One  would  have  said  his  are  the  plead 
ing  and  hers  the  eyes  that  mock. " 

It  occurred  to  her  that  there  was  a  chance 
of  his  sincerity.  She  repelled  the  thought 
as  disloyal  to  Yvonne. 

"How  deep-seated  is  this  love  of  place!" 

IQ5 


THE  LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

mused  Willoughby,  half  to  himself,  as  he  re 
sumed  his  walk  by  Helen.  "It  is  a  curious 
thing  that  never  since  I  left  Spuyten  Kill  ten 
years  ago  have  my  dreams  been  elsewhere. 
Whenever  they  have  had  a  local  habitation 
and  a  name  it  has  been  here.  I  have  some 
times  returned  from  an  assignment  on  a 
horrid  railroad  strike  or  from  a  detail  in  a 
midnight  police-court  only  to  spend  my 
night  wading  in  the  peaceful  little  Pokamo 
or  hunting  blackberries  in  sequestered 
thickets." 

"It  must  be  a  pleasure,"  said  Helen,  "to 
free  one's  self  in  dreams  of  painful  reali 
ties." 

She  was  touched  by  the  simplicity  of  Wil- 
loughby's  tone. 

"  'In  sleep  a  king,  but  waking,  no  such 
matter, '  ' '  quoted  the  young  man. 

Helen  drew  him  on  to  tell  of  his  news 
paper  experiences.  But  they  were  all  so 
novel  to  her  she  could  not  throw  herself  into 
them.  They  drifted  apart  again.  Will- 
oughby  felt  her  lack  of  sympathy,  and  an 
awkward  silence  ensued. 

They  were  passing  now  along  the  village 
highway.  In  contrast  with  well-kept  lawns 
and  trim  shrubbery  was  one  old  place,  over- 
196 


A   SPRING  WALK 

grown  lilac-bushes  guarding  it  from  the 
street,  the  gray,  weather-beaten  wooden 
house  standing  far  back  among  pine-trees, 
and  a  brindled  cow  grazing  on  the  shaggy, 
erst-time  lawn. 

A  little  wicket-gate  opened  invitingly  into 
the  street,  tempting  one  within  to  follow  a 
winding  path  that  seemed  to  end  in  a  little 
circular  pavilion. 

"And  here  the  thirsty  traveler  may  enter 
in  and  drink,"  said  Willoughby.  "What  a 
hospitable  thought  of  the  old  gentleman's! 
How  often  have  I  stooped  down  and  called 
him  blessed!" 

They  wended  their  way  to  the  little 
pavilion  that  sheltered  a  deep  stone-built 
spring.  How  dark  and  cool  it  was!  The 
green  moss  was  thick  as  plush  on  the  stone 
sides  above  the  water. 

Pierce  was  eagerly  first  in  reaching  down, 
arm's  length,  into  the  limpid  pool  and  put 
ting  the  sparkling,  overbrimming  tin  cup 
into  Yvonne's  hand. 

"And  here  one  may  rest  weary  limbs," 
said  Brockton,  throwing  himself  languidly 
down  upon  the  circular  stone  bench. 

"The  April  sun  is  really  hot,"  and  Helen 
sat  beside  him. 

197 


THE   LADY   OF  THE   FLAG- FLOWERS 

Willoughby  seized  the  opportunity  for  a 
few  murmured  words  to  Yvonne. 

"I  am  going  to  show  Miss  Yvonne  the 
rockery  behind  the  house, ' '  he  remarked  to 
brother  and  sister.  "I  presume  it  will  have 
dwindled  sadly  since  the  days  when  it 
seemed  to  my  youthful  eyes  a  fragment  of 
Alpine  landscape." 

He  seemed  very  blithe  and  buoyant  as  he 
walked  away  with  Yvonne.  A  comfortable 
family  silence  ensued  on  the  circular  bench. 

When  the  walk  was  resumed,  Brockton, 
taking  the  initiative,  was  Yvonne's  compan 
ion  again.  The  two  men  looked  at  each 
other  a  moment,  with  mutual  recognition  of 
a  vague  rivalry. 

Helen  and  Pierce  talked  little.  The 
beautiful  street  looped  and  unlooped  itself 
before  their  footsteps.  The  afternoon  air 
was  full  of  twitterings  of  home-building 
birds.  Little  children  were  picking  dande 
lions  in  sunny  yards.  The  blue  river  shone 
here  and  there  in  glimpses  at  the  end  of 
cross-roads.  All  was  bathed  in  that  gentle 
pathos  of  spring,  the  pathos  of  a  hundred 
forgotten  springs  gone  before,  like  the 
pathos  of  remembered  laughter  from  lips 
that  are  dead. 

198 


A    SPRING    WALK 

' '  It  is  a  great  joy  to  me, ' '  said  Willoughby, 
in  a  deep,  moved  voice,  "that  Yvonne 
should  know  all  this  of  mine  as  I  know  that 
land  of  hers. " 

Helen  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  for  he 
spoke  like  a  man  who  has  always  been  true 
to  truth.  Willoughby  noticed  her  look,  and 
thought  he  had  gone  too  far  in  self-reveal- 
ment. 

Just  then  Brockton  and  Yvonne,  ahead  of 
them,  paused  at  an  intersection  of  roads. 
The  cross-street  led  to  the  little  Catholic 
church  on  the  low  sand-hill  by  the  river. 
Brockton  was  remonstrating  with  Yvonne, 
and  then  Willoughby  saw  him  snatch  her 
hand  and  hold  it  for  a  moment  to  his  breast. 
It  was  the  passionate,  quick  gesture  of  one 
who  thinks  himself  unnoticed. 

Willoughby,  in  the  midst  of  a  sentence, 
was  suddenly  silent,  as  if  he  had  been 
struck.  Helen,  looking  up,  saw  the  pained 
look  of  him. 

"I  am  going  to  leave  you  here,"  said 
Yvonne.  "No,  do  not  accompany  me.  It 
is  only  a  few  minutes'  walk.  I  will  meet 
you  after  vespers " 

"We  might  go  round  to  the  Old  Dutch 
Church  in  the  Hollow, ' '  began  Helen. 
199 


THE  LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

"And  I  will  join  you  on  the  bridge  over 
the  Pokamo,  in  about  an  hour,"  Yvonne 
replied. 

The  three  walked  slowly  on,  when  Will 
oughby  stopped  abruptly. 

"Pardon  me,"  he  said,  "we  used  to  go  to 
church  together  at  Jeune  Vallette.  I  should 
like  to  do  so  again  for  old  times'  sake." 

Brockton  acknowledged  himself  check 
mated  as  Willoughby's  rapid  retreating  steps 
sounded  down  the  road.  During  the  after 
noon's  walk,  with  all  his  facility  in  innuendo 
and  flattery,  he  had  been  casting  about 
Yvonne  the  subtle  bonds  of  a  strong,  un- 
uttered  passion. 

He  recognized  the  dominating  quality  in 
Willoughby,  the  strong,  unswervable  cur 
rent  of  his  nature,  and  Brockton  resolved 
to  counteract  any  renewed  influence  he 
might  exert  over  Yvonne.  Not  that  he 
himself  was  serious  in  his  desire  to  win  her. 
Marriage  had  never  entered  into  his  head 
except  as  ridiculous  folly.  Nevertheless, 
he  believed  himself  in  love  with  her,  and 
wanted  at  least  the  delicious  titillation  of 
inspiring  love  in  return.  Yvonne's  difficult 
reserve  and  the  tacit  rivalry  of  Willoughby 
made  this  end  more  than  ever  desirable,  but 


A    SPRING    WALK 

it  must  be  accomplished  without  self-com 
promise. 

Yvonne,  with  her  ununified  aims  and 
desires,  was  bewildered  by  the  manifold 
phases  of  life.  The  rich  warmth  of  an 
unsurrendered  nature,  longing  for  outlet, 
surged  up  continually  in  her  heart,  like  a 
restless  tide  against  the  sea-wall. 

Her  ears  were  full  of  Van  Eyck's  melting 
tones,  and  her  pulses  still  throbbed  with  his 
touch,  and  now  she  drooped  beneath  Wil- 
loughby's  intense  gaze  and  the  repression  of 
his  voice.  With  a  long  sigh  of  relief,  she 
threw  herself  on  her  knees  in  the  clammy 
gloom  of  the  tawdry  little  church  and  told 
her  prayers  with  passionate  fervor.  And  as 
she  prayed,  she  forgot  the  blue  shimmer  of 
spring  outside  and  the  shadow  of  the  Future 
was  again  above  her  head.  Only  a  few  more 
weeks  and  it  would  be  upon  her.  The 
dreadful  Known  would  take  the  place  of  the 
beautiful  Unknown. 


201 


CHAPTER   VII 

AN   INDIAN    HEAVEN 

Yvonne  was  spending  a  few  days  with 
the  Fentons  in  town.  It  was  her  last 
month,  and  they  were  doing  their  best  to 
make  her  happy. 

Helen  was  also  there,  having  come  into 
town,  servant-hunting.  Eliza  Blodgett  was 
homesick,  and  had  announced  a  speedy 
return  to  England. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fenton,  in  the  absence  of 
their  guests,  were  talking  things  over. 
"Things"  usually  meant  Yvonne. 

"And  though  it  is  no  sign,"  Madge 
said,  "that  if  a  man  is  unhappy  with 
out  a  girl  he  will  be  happy  with  her, 
still  I  think  that  Yvonne  is  well  adapted  to 
Pierce. ' ' 

"He  is  certainly  unhappy  without  her," 
said  Mr.  Fenton,  and  just  then  Mr.  Will- 
oughby  was  announced  at  the  door.  He 
came  in  with  Helen  Van  Eyck,  and  both  of 
them  looked  serious.  They  had  met,  as 
Helen  explained,  in  the  park,  and  had  found 
203 


THE   LADY  OP  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

that  they  were  directed  toward  the    same 
destination. 

"And  we  have  been  having  the  most 
delightful  quarrel,"  said  Helen,  with  a 
doubtful  glance  at  Pierce. 

It  is  dangerous  to  carry  on  a  discussion 
with  a  person  whom  we  analyze  unfavorably. 

"Over  what?"  said  Madge,  handing  Helen 
a  cup  of  tea. 

"Quite  impersonal  —  the  character  of 
Ibsen's  Brand." 

"I  will  leave  it  to  Mrs.  Fenton  whether  it 
was  impersonal  or  not,"  said  Pierce,  with  a 
slight  smile.  "Miss  Van  Eyck,  in  conten 
tion  against  my  statement  that  Brand  was 
not  a  natural  character,  points  to  me  and 
calls  me  Brand." 

"And  don't  you  think  he  is?"  asked 
Helen.  "Wouldn't  he  stake  all  on  a  theory 
and  sacrifice  the  common  duties  of  life  for  a 
beautiful  idea?" 

"What  did  Brand  do?  I  have  forgotten," 
asked  Madge. 

"I  know,"  said  Yvonne,  who  entered  in 
time  to  hear  the  last  question.  "I  went  to 
Professor  Thorwald's  lecture  last  week. 
He  gave  up  the  woman  he  loved,  rather  than 
give  up  an  idea. ' ' 

204 


AN   INDIAN    HEAVEN 

Yvonne's  face,  as  she  said  this,  bore  a 
look  of  eerie  innocence.  Helen  looked  at 
her  sharply.  Knowing  a  little  of  the  rela 
tions  between  her  and  Willoughby,  Helen 
felt  the  thrust.  She  saw  that  Pierce  had 
suddenly  sobered,  and  that  the  lines  about 
his  face  were  drawn. 

After  Helen  had  gone  home,  Pierce  and 
Yvonne  were  left  by  themselves  in  the 
library. 

The  girl,  in  her  new  environment,  was 
still  a  study  to  the  young  man.  She  seemed 
to  fit  in  admirably  with  Morris  tiles,  Vene 
tian  water-colors,  teak-wood  tables  and 
French-bound  books,  and  yet,  he  could  but 
wonder. 

"Why  do  you  look  at  me  so?  It  is  not 
polite." 

Willoughby  laughed  apologetically,  and 
admitted  that  he  was  thinking. 

"It  is  so  unusual,  you  know,  to  see  any 
one  think  that  it  puzzled  me,"  Yvonne  went 
on. 

She  fingered  the  red  roses  which  Will 
oughby  the  day  before  had  brought  her. 

"You  are  quite  happy  here?"  he  ques 
tioned  vaguely.  "It  satisfies  you?  You 
have  everything?" 

205 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

Yvonne  looked  about  her  as  if  in  search  of 
an  answer.  Her  eyes  rested  on  a  Sevres 
bowl  that  held  Roman  hyacinths.  She 
turned  her  eyes  toward  Willoughby,  and 
they  looked  like  a  purple-black  cloud  that 
has  in  its  heart  the  forked  lightning. 

' '  Only  one  thing  I  lack, ' '  she  burst  out, 
"a  mountain  forest." 

"You  have  the  park,"  Willoughby  said, 
with  gentle  irony,  "and  also  the  apple-trees 
at  Orchardhurst.  You  should  be  content. ' ' 

"They  smell  of  man,"  said  Yvonne, 
fiercely.  "Do  you  remember  the  forest  on 
la  Montagne  Ronde?  Untamed  from  base 
to  summit,  lonely,  dense,  still.  And  one 
startled  deer  looking  at  you,  when  you  have 
sat  under  an  oak  for  an  hour." 

Willoughby  was  unconsciously  led  on  by 
her  reminiscent  semi-confidential  tone.  She 
had  baffled  him  somewhat  these  last  few 
days.  He  had  not  dared  to  say  to  her 
words  that  were  in  his  heart. 

"Yvonne,  I  believe  I,  best  of  all,  under 
stand  you.  I  knew  you  then,  and  I  know 
you  now. ' ' 

"How  little,  either  then  or  now!"  she 
thought. 

But  aloud: 

206 


AN    INDIAN    HEAVEN 

"Yes,  Pierce,  you  knew  me — dans  le 
temps  jadis." 

Again  she  led  him  on,  for  a  swift  impulse 
had  come  to  her — an  impulse  such  as  Indians 
have. 

"I  was  young  then,"  he  said,  "and  fool 
ish.  My  views  have  changed,  but  not  my 
heart." 

As  she  lleaned  toward  him  and  listened 
eagerly,  hope  began  to  revive  in  Will- 
oughby's  heart. 

"I,  too,  was  young,"  she  said,  "and  fool 
ish.  I,  too,  have  changed,  but  I  have  not 
forgotten." 

She  wished  Poleon  could  hear  her. 

Willoughby  smiled  to  think  how  they  were 
talking  like  two  old  sages. 

"We  are  neither  of  us  very  old,"  he  said. 
"Life  lies  before  us  just  as  it  did  then,  only 
now  we  need  not  delay  our  pilgrimage,  and 
we  want  no  guide." 

"And  where  does  the  way  go?"  asked 
Yvonne,  following  his  mood  deliciously. 

"I  only  know  where  mine  goes."  Will 
oughby  was  intent  and  earnest.  "Where 
you  are.  Let  us  never  be  separated  again." 

"We  have  been  separated  so  long,"  said 
Yvonne,  as  if  urging  an  impersonal  cause. 
207 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG  -  FLOWERS 

"We  shall  be  all  the  happier  now," 
answered  Willoughby,  with  tender  vehe 
mence. 

An  expression  flitting  across  Yvonne's  face 
made  him  fear. 

"What  is  it?"  he  said,  apprehensively. 
*' There  is  nothing  to  come  between  us? 
Yvonne,  tell  me  but  once  more  that  you  love 
me,  as  you  did ' ' 

"Dans  le  temps  jadis, "  said  Yvonne, 
repeating  the  phrase  which  she  loved  so 
well. 

At  last  her  cup  of  triumph  was  full. 

"Then  and  now  are  two  different  words," 
she  went  on  coldly  and  precisely. 

"When  you  come  to  pick  up  the  bauble 
that  you  once  threw  away " 

"Threw  away!  Yvonne!"  said  Will 
oughby,  reproachfully. 

"That  you  once  threw  away," — Yvonne 
was  taking  a  solemn,  youthful  joy  in  the 
melodramatic — "you  find  it  is  yours  no 
more.  Pierce  Willoughby,  you  come  too 
late." 

"This  is  your  revenge,"  he  said,  brokenly, 
with  no  shade  of  bitterness,  "and  now  that 
you  have  had  it,  be  content. ' ' 

With  his  own  great,  abiding  love,  he  could 
208 


AN    INDIAN    HEAVEN 

not  but  imagine  he  would  find  some  response 
in  her. 

"Say  but  the  word,  Yvonne,  and  I  will 
take  you  anywhere,  do  all  that  you  ask. 
You  loved  me  once.  Surely  you  love  me 
still." 

Yvonne  rose  with  a  dramatic  air  of  dis 
missal. 

"You  forget  how  long  ago,"  she  said,  with 
careless  scorn,  "and  it  wearies  one  to  wait." 

She  put  out  her  hand. 

"But  we  may  be  good  friends,  Pierce,  for 
I  learned  from  you  my  first  lesson." 

The  French  blood  conquered  the  Indian. 
Her  resentment  was  appeased.  She  began 
to  have  pleasant  thoughts  of  Willoughby, 
and  even  to  pity  him. 

But  to  him  her  patronage  was  crueller 
than  her  scorn. 

The  next  day  he  called  at  the  Fentons  to 
say  good-bye.  He  saw  only  Helen  and 
Yvonne,  as  Madge  had  gone  out.  There 
was  that  coldness  in  his  manner  which  with 
some  men  marks  the  suppression  of  strong 
emotion.  After  ten  minutes,  during  which 
nothing  particular  was  said,  he  rose  and 
shook  hands  with  them  both. 

"Good-bye,  Miss  Van  Eyck." 
209 


THE  LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

"Good-bye,  Miss  Brusseau,  Yvonne,"  he 
added,  in  a  lower  tone.  He  held  her  hand 
an  instant  longer  than  he  ought  to  have 
done,  and  then  left. 

Helen  walked  to  the  window,  and  watched 
him,  a  strong,  athletic  figure,  as  he  strode 
down  the  street. 

"So  he  really  cares  for  her,"  she  thought. 

He  stumbled  over  a  child's  sled  that  lay 
on  the  sidewalk. 

"He  is  not  looking  where  he  goes,"  she 
said  to  herself. 

Then  returning  to  the  table  she  exclaimed, 
with  apparent  irrelevance : 

"Yvonne,  I  believe  you  have  no  heart." 

"I  believe  so,  too,"  said  Yvonne.  "But 
you  advised  it. ' ' 

"He  deserves  it,"  said  Helen,  "but  then 
— I  am  sorry  for  him. ' ' 

"II  ne  me  fait  rien,"  answered  Yvonne. 
"He  would  have  left  me  there,  like  a  lost 
child  on  the  moon," 


210 


CHAPTER   VIII 

WHEN    THE   BIRDS   FLY 

It  was  six  o'clock  in  the  morning1  and 
springtime  in  the  Park.  Yvonne  was  alone, 
on  a  little  walk  that  wound  in  and  out 
among  rocks  and  wild  places,  up  hill  and 
down  hill,  between  flowering  shrubs  here 
and  under  spreading  branches  there.  The 
air  was  sweet  with  spring  smells  of  blossom 
ing  bushes  and  trees.  Here  the  lilacs  were 
a  mass  of  purple,  and  there  the  flowering 
quince  bourgeoned  out  in  crimson.  The 
wild  columbine  nodded  its  honey-horns 
between  crevices  of  the  rocks,  and  where 
there  was  a  light  layer  of  soil  the  saxifrage 
spread  itself  out  like  a  white  powder. 

Yvonne  climbed  up  the  tortuous  path 
until  she  came  to  a  little  upland  where  there 
were  apple-trees  in  bloom.  The  dew  still 
shimmered  on  the  circular  spider-webs  that 
lay  on  the  short-cropped  grass.  Yvonne 
stood  still  and  took  off  her  hat.  She  went 
under  an  apple  tree  and  looked  up  into  the 
sky,  deliciously  blue  in  the  rifts  of  the  pink- 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG- FLOWERS 

petaled  fragrance  above  her.  She  drew  a 
long  breath. 

Then  a  thrush  on  a  neighboring  locust 
broke  out  into  a  glorious,  passionate  bubble 
of  song. 

"Oh,  you  dear  world!"  Yvonne  said,  lift 
ing  her  arms  as  if  to  embrace  the  uni 
verse. 

"Green  things  and  blue  things  and  pink- 
and- whiteness.  Dear  May!  How  I  love 
you!  Dear  God,  I  cannot  enjoy  them 
enough. ' ' 

Then  in  the  midst  of  all  that  rapture  a 
coldness  crept  over  her. 

"Ah,  it  is  I,"  she  cried,  still  with  hands 
upraised.  "I.  What  do  I  want?  Dear 
God,  why  am  I  here?  Tell  me." 

She  waited,  with  lips  parted,  looking 
upward  into  the  luminous  blue  of  heaven. 

A  little  shiver  of  breeze  sent  a  flurry  of 
petals  down  upon  her  face  and  hair. 

' '  Love  —  love  —  love "  warbled  the 

thrush. 

"No,  not  love."  Yvonne  dropped  her 
arms.  "It  is  beyond  me.  I  cannot  love." 

She  thought  of  Van  Eyck.  She  thought 
of  Willoughby.  She  shuddered  when  she 
thought  of  de  Rocelles. 

212 


WHEN    THE    BIRDS    FLY 

"No,  no,  not  marriage — I  am  beyond 
it." 

"Love — love — love,"  warbled  the  thrush. 

"Dear  God,  no.  Not  Pol<§on.  I  will  not 
love  him.  Not  yet,  not  yet.  Not  in  Jetme 
Vallette  again.  Not  my  people." 

She  dropped  on  her  knees  beside  the  rough 
tree-trunk,  her  crisp  skirt  flaring  out  over 
the  wet  grass. 

Her  lips  moved  as  if  in  prayer. 

A  blackbird  near  by  frolicked  out  a  snatch. 

Yvonne  rose  and  tripped  into  the  little 
gravel  path.  The  wet,  pink  petals  still 
clung  to  her  black  hair. 

"Pivart  crie 
Signe  de  la  pluie " 


She  piped  the  rhyme  of  her  childhood. 

Then  the  joy  of  life  seized  her  again,  and 
holding  up  her  pink  cotton  skirt  in  either 
hand,  she  fell  to  singing  and  dancing  as  she 
had  used' in  the  fetes  du  riviere  by  the  St. 
Gabriel. 

It  chanced  that  a  horseman  was  taking  his 
early  ride  on  the  bridle-path  not  far  away. 
He  heard  the  singing  voice  and  stopped, 
watching  the  gay  little  figure  in  its  dramatic 
evolutions. 

213 


THE   LADY   OP  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

The  song  was  Cecilia,  and  the  last  time 
Yvonne  had  sung  it  was  under  the  pine-trees 
in  front  of  Poleon.  It  runs  thus: 

Mon  per  n'avait  fille  que  moi. 
Encor'  sur  la  mer  il  m'envoie. 

Sautez,  mignonne,  Cecilia, 

Ah!  ah,  Cecilia. 

(Here  one  dances.) 

Encor'  sur  la  mer  il  m'envoie. 
Le  marinier  qui  m'y  menait 

(Here  one  mimics  the  sailor.) 

Sautez,  mignonne,  etc. 
(Here  one  dances.) 

Le  marinier  qui  m'y  menait, 
(Here  one  mimics  a  love-sick  sailor.) 

II  devait  amoureux  de  moi 

(Refrain  and  dance.) 

II  devait  amoureux  de  moi. 
Ma  mignonette,  embrassez-moi. 

(More  mimicry.) 
(Refrain  and  dance.) 

Ma  mignonette,  embrassez-moi 
Nenni,  Monsieur,  je  n'oserais. 
214 


WHEN    THE    BIRDS    FLY 

(One  mimics  a  shy  but  not  unwilling  girl.) 
(Refrain  and  dance.) 

Nenni,  Monsieur,  je  n'oserais, 
Car  si  papan  le  savait. 

(One  mimics  a  stern  papa.) 
(Refrain  and  dance.) 

Car  si  papan  le  savait, 
Fille  battue  ce  serait  moi. 

(One  mimics  a  frightened  girl.) 
(Refrain  and  dance.) 

Fille  battue  ce  serait  moi, 
Voulez-vous,  bell',  qui  lui  dirait? 

(Lover  holds  her  in  his  arms  now. ) 
(Refrain  and  languishing  dance.) 

Voulez-vous,  bell',  qui  lui  dirait? 
Ce  serait  les  oiseaux  des  bois. 

(One  mimics  the  birds.) 
(Refrain  and  dance.) 

Ce  serait  les  oiseaux  des  bois, 
Les  oiseaux  des  bois  parlent-ils? 

(One  mimics  the  sailor's  amaze.) 
(Refrain  and  dance.) 

Les  oiseaux  des  bois  parlent-ils? 

Ils  parlent  frangais,  latin  aussi. 

215 


THE   LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

(One  is  saucily  triumphant.) 
(Refrain  and  dance.) 

Ils  parlent  francais,  latin  aussi, 
Helas!  que  le  monde  est  malin. 

(One  is  comically  sad.) 

D'apprendre  aux  oiseaux  le  latin. 
(Laughter,  dance  and  refrain.) 

Sautez,  mignonne,  Cecilia. 
Ah,  ah!  Cecilia. 

"Bravo!"  said  a  voice  behind  her. 

Yvonne  looked  round.  It  was  Tom  Barry 
who  had  alighted  from  his  horse  and  was 
leading  him  across  the  grass  between  the 
little  apple-trees. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  exclaimed  Yvonne,  in  the 
Jenue  Vallette  way,  throwing  up  her  hands. 
"Mr.  Barry!" 

"Miss  Brusseau!"  exclaimed  the  actor, 
with  assumed  equal  surprise. 

Then  they  both  laughed  and  felt  well 
acquainted. 

"What  are  you  doing  here  so  early  in  the 
morning?"  asked  Tom  Barry. 

"Une  petite  sauterie.     Et  vous?" 

"Watching  it.  It  was  delicious,  my 
child." 

216 


WHEN    THE    BIRDS    FLY 

Yvonne  looked  unusually  child-like  in  her 
morning  frock,  her  hair  a  little  disordered 
and  her  cheeks  dusky  warm. 

She  dropped  a  quaint  courtesy  in  return 
for  Mr.  Barry's  compliment. 

"Really!"  he  repeated.  "You  would 
take  a  London  music-hall  by  storm.  Where 
did  you  learn  such  a  pretty  piece?" 

"In  my  home;  in  Canada.  You  know,  I 
am  a  French-Canadian.  And  of  the  Huron 
race,  long  ago.  I  can  do  ever  so  many  more 
pieces  like  that.  Could  I  earn  my  living  by 
singing  and  dancing  them?" 

Yvonne  was  talking  excitedly,  for  an  idea 
had  burst  in  her  brain. 

The  English  actor  was  taken  aback.  He 
had  met  Yvonne  under  conventional  sur 
roundings,  and  had  never  imagined  her  as 
having  other  than  the  conventional  ante 
cedents. 

' l May  I  walk  with  you?"  he  said.  ' '  I  must 
take  Trouble  back  to  the  bridle-path,  where 
he  belongs.  We  will  walk  on  the  meadow 
there,  beside." 

Yvonne  was   pinning  on  her  straw  hat, 
and  under  its  yellow  brim,  with  the  black- 
eyed    Susans    nodding    above,    she    looked 
tawnier  and  prettier  than  ever. 
217 


THE  LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

She  had  received  a  letter  from  her  cousin 
Pole'on  the  evening  before,  in  which  he  had 
said  that  they  would  send  her  no  more 
money,  and  he  was  coming  soon  to  take  her 
back  to  La  Jeune  Vallette.  It  was  this 
unwelcome  news  which  had  stirred  her  up 
to  the  early  morning  walk  in  the  Park. 
Yvonne  could  always  think  better  under  the 
open  sky. 

"I  want  so  much  to  earn  my  living,"  said 
Yvonne,  gravely. 

Tom  Barry  looked  at  her  curiously. 

"You  see,"  she  went  on,  confidentially, 
4 'I  have  no  money  of  my  own,  and  my  cousin 
is  coming  to  get  me,  and  I  will  not  go  with 
him.  No,  never." 

"Have  3rou  consulted  with  your  friends?" 
said  Tom  Barry,  trying  to  get  the  conversa 
tion  back  upon  a  more  formal  basis. 

"Mon  Dieu,  no,"  said  Yvonne,  shrugging 
her  shoulders.  ' '  I  am  afraid  they  are  tired 
of  me  already,  and  they  could  not  interfere 
with  the  wish  of  my  family.  I  will  not  be 
dependent.  They  have  done  too  much  for 
me  now.  No,  to  be  free,  I  must  run  away 
and  no  one  must  know  where  I  am — Mr. 
Barry,  will  you  help  me?" 

"I  sail  for  England  to-morrow,"  he  said. 
218 


WHEN    THE    BIRDS    FLY 

"Oh!"  She  stood  still  and  clasped  her 
hands  about  his  arm. 

"Take  me  with  you.  I  will  sing  and 
dance  for  you  in  your  theater. ' ' 

Poor  Yvonne!  She  did  not  understand 
the  cold,  kindly  barrier  that  Mr.  Barry  put 
up  between  himself  and  her  pleadings.  So 
gracious  he  had  been  a  moment  ago,  and 
now  she  felt  as  if  there  were  a  stone  wall 
between  them. 

' '  I  am  afraid  in  my  theater  there  would 
be  no  opportunity  for  such  work  as  yours. 
But  if  you  should  ever  come  to  Lon 
don,  Miss  Brusseau,  I  will  put  you  in  the 
way  of  some  people  who  might  be  useful  to 
you." 

Yvonne  clutched  at  the  straw. 

"You  think  I  could  really  please  people  in 
the  theater?" 

Tom  Barry  was  sorry  he  had  committed 
himself  so  far  already.  But  if  the  girl  was 
in  earnest  it  would  do  no  harm  to  tell  her 
the  truth. 

' '  I  should  have  to  see  your  work  under 
different  circumstances  to  give  a  candid 
opinion.  But  I  think  you  would  have  great 
talent  as — as — a  vaudeville  artist " 

"Thank  you,"  said  Yvonne. 
219 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

After  that  she  became  quite  commonplace 
again. 

It  was  during  the  morning  of  that  same 
day  that  Madge  and  Horace  were  talking 
together. 

"I  feel  as  if  this  were  the  end  of  the 
chapter  with  our  prote'ge',  Madge.  She  has 
sent  Willoughby  away.  Brockton?  He  is 
never  in  earnest.  What  next?" 

"I  am  disappointed,  Horace.  Pierce  told 
me  how  much  he  cared  for  her.  He's  such 
a  single-hearted  fellow.  I  believe  she's  been 
the  dream  of  his  life  ever  since  he  first  knew 
her." 

"And  you  don't  think  she  cares  for  him  in 
the  least?" 

"No,  I  think  not.  But  somehow  I  don't 
understand  her.  She  seems  to  have  no 
sentiment,  for  a  young  girl. ' ' 

"And  what's  worse,"  Fenton  said,  "she 
has  no  worldly  wisdom  to  take  its  place. ' ' 

"For  instance,"  Madge  went  on,  "she 
shows  no  more  feeling  for  Pierce  Will 
oughby,  that  splendid,  genuine  fellow,  than 
she  did  for  a  starched  youth  like  Fitz-Sim- 
mons.  And  Pierce,  he  is  bound  up  in  her. 
But,  as  Helen  said,  he  will  go  on  doing  his 
work  in  life,  trampling  his  feelings  under 
220 


WHEN    THE    BIRDS    FLY 

foot,  too  proud  to  grieve,  too  brave  to  falter, 
till  his  heart  and  brain  are  burnt  out 
together." 

"Helen  said  that,  did  she?"  mused  Fenton. 
"Don't  you  think  that  Helen  understands 
Willoughby  wonderfully  well?" 

They  heard  a  slight  sound  from  Mrs. 
Fenton's  sitting-room,  which  adjoined  the 
library,  and  Yvonne  appeared  through  the 
portieres. 

"I  have  been  sleeping,"  she  said.  "I  was 
up  too  early  this  morning. ' ' 

"Five  o'clock,  was  it?"  answered  Horace. 
"That  is  a  brutal  hour,  Yvonne." 

The  girl  picked  up  her  hat  from  the  table, 
and  walked  toward  the  door. 

"I  am  going  down-town  with  Helen,"  she 
said.  "Au  revoir,  mes  amis." 

She  waved  them  a  kiss  through  the  door 
as  she  went  out. 

Husband  and  wife  looked  at  each  other. 

Helen  and  Yvonne,  walking  past  the  shops 
on  Sixth  Avenue,  talked  idly.  Such  things 
as  the  kaleidoscopic  windows  brought  to 
view — iridescent  bubbles  of  glass,  turquoise - 
blue  fantasies  in  millinery,  blossoming  white 
heather,  jeweled  barbarities  in  buckles, 
sinuous  poster-ladies, — these  were  their 
221 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG  -  FLOWERS 

themes  of  discourse,  till  Helen  cried  sud 
denly  : 

"I  am  sick  of  it  all,  Yvonne.  Child  of  the 
wilderness,  how  can  you  be  content?" 

"Perhaps  I  am  not,"  said  Yvonne,  remem 
bering  her  sunrise  feelings  under  the  apple- 
trees. 

"What  then?"  asked  Helen. 

"Who  knows?"  and  the  shadow  of  the 
pine-tree  crept  over  Yvonne's  face,  the  pine- 
tree  under  which  her  forebears  had  fashioned 
arrows  centuries  ago.  But  Helen  had  never 
known  the  pine-tree  and  did  not  observe  its 
shadow. 

"As  for  me,"  Helen  went  on,  "life  holds 
little  in  store  for  those  who  begin  with 
everything." 

She  bowed  to  a  young  woman  who  was 
passing.  She  was  dressed  with  a  certain 
freedom  and  walked  with  an  air  of  detach 
ment  from  her  surroundings. 

"What  a  thoughtful  face!"  said  Yvonne. 

"It  is  Miss  Stuart.  She  is  just  home 
from  college  on  her  spring  vacation.  I  wish 
I  were  a  college  woman,  Yvonne." 

"Why?" 

"They  have  so  much  to  think  about 
besides  the  passing  fashion.  Their  lives  are 

222 


WHEN    THE    BIRDS    FLY 

full.  And  if  they  don't  want  to  live  in  one 
world,  they  have  others. ' ' 

"Each  on  his  separate  star?"  laughed 
Yvonne. 

"They  believe  in  things  as  they  see  them — 
For  the  God  of  things  as  they  are, ' '  finished 
Helen. 

"You  should  have  been  one  of  us  at  La 
Jeune  Vallette. " 

"Ah,  but  I  could  not  have  forgotten,  as 
you  have  done,  Yvonne." 

"One  does  not  forget,"  said  Yvonne. 
"But  sometimes  one  does  not  talk." 

"Oh,"  answered  Helen.  It  was  a  quick, 
reflective  "oh,"  like  a  comet  that  leaves  a 
tail  of  light  behind  it. 

Yvonne  was  thinking  of  her  cousin,  The- 
One-Who-Never-Forgets. 

"What  I  need,"  added  Helen,  with  appar 
ent,  not  real,  irrelevance,  "is  the  sting  of 
something  to  make  me  work.  Poverty,  for 
instance.  I  believe  I  could  write. " 

"Do  it,"  cried  Yvonne.  "And  if  you 
would  only  like  Pierce  Willoughby,  he  would 
help  you,  I  am  sure." 

"He  is  clever,  but  too  much  le  poseur,  is 
he  not?"  said  Helen.  "I  believe  I  could 
never  accept  his  judgments.  He  surveys 
223 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

his  intellectual  self  in  a  looking-glass,  and 
puts  on  or  takes  off  as  is  becoming  to  him. ' ' 

"You  and  he "  began  Yvonne,  with  a 

mischievous  intonation. 

"Please!"  remonstrated    Helen,   gravely. 

They  had  reached  the  tailor's,  and  Helen 
said  she  would  go  in  for  her  fitting.  So 
Yvonne  left  her  there,  with  a  gay  good-bye. 

When  Helen  returned  to  dinner  that  even 
ing  Yvonne  had  not  yet  arrived. 

"It  is  very  strange, "  Madge  was  saying, 
and  then  the  servant  came  in  with  a  note. 

Madge  read  it  in  silence.  Her  face  turned 
white,  and  she  handed  it  to  Helen.  The 
note  was  a  brief  one  from  Yvonne,  saying 
that  she  had  left  them  all.  They  were  not 
to  look  for  her  nor  trouble  themselves.  She 
would  return  sometime,  but  till  then  let  it 
be  as  if  they  had  never  known  her. 

The  days  passed,  and  despite  their  utmost 
efforts  they  found  no  clew  to  the  where 
abouts  of  the  missing  girl.  The  boy  who 
brought  the  note  had  gone.  Helen  knew 
nothing  of  her  friend  from  the  time  when 
they  had  parted  on  the  street. 

Madge  remembered  that  Yvonne  had 
received  a  letter  from  Canada  the  evening 
before  her  disappearance,  the  contents  of 
224 


WHEN    THE    BIRDS    FLY 

which  had  apparently  disturbed  her.  They 
also  recalled  their  conversation  in  the  library 
the  next  morning,  which  Yvonne  might 
have  overheard. 

' '  She  has  gone  to  her  woods  again, ' '  said 
Horace.  "Longing  for  the  wilderness  may 
have  seized  her,  a  longing  the  Indian  and 
the  gypsy  can  never  overcome. ' ' 

Madge  wrote  to  Madame  in  Canada  and 
her  husband  to  Pierce  Willoughby.  By  and 
by  came  a  stormy  visitor  from  La  Jeune 
Vallette  in  the  person  of  Poleon  Gros-Louys. 
The  Fentons  entertained  him  kindly,  and 
told  him  the  extent  of  their  endeavors.  He 
spent  the  days  in  ceaseless  walking  up  and 
down  of  New  York's  streets  and  avenues. 
He  peered  into  the  oddest  corners  and 
searched  the  unlikeliest  places.  But  his  wood 
craft  stood  him  in  small  stead  amid  the  intri 
cacies  of  a  great  city.  Finally,  with  a  gruff 
good-bye,  he  parted  from  his  host  and  hostess. 

After  a  period  of  distraction  and  suffering, 
the  Fentons  and  the  Van  Eycks  settled  back 
into  the  old  life.  Yvonne's  room  was  kept 
ready  for  her,  with  all  her  small  possessions 
put  carefully  away,  her  prayer-book  and 
rosary  lying  where  she  had  left  them,  on  the 
table  below  the  brown  image  of  St.  Antoine. 
225 


•PART    FOUR 


WHAT    THE    WORLD    BROUGHT 

'Where  Love  is,  there  will  I  be  also,  said  Fear." 

—  Landor. 


227 


CHAPTER  I 

THE    OLD    ORDER    CHANGETH 

In  the  great  vacancy  that  death  leaves, 
Helen  sat  with  Madge  and  Horace  in  the 
swept  and  garnished  house  at  Orchardhurst. 
How  pitifully  silent  it  seemed,  with  the  yel 
low  leaves  falling  outside  and  the  orange 
sun  hanging  like  a  lantern  in  the  smoke- 
darkened  sky!  Forest  fires  had  been  rag 
ing,  and  the  day  was  close  and  still.  Never 
again  would  she  hear  the  doctor's  admoni 
tory  roar,  as  he  watched  Draper  puttering 
about  the  currant  bushes.  No  more  his 
deep,  burring  monotone,  pacing  up  and 
down  the  porch  of  a  summer  evening,  and 
grandly  mouthing  to  himself  passages  from 
his  favorite  Milton.  The  old  gardener 
might  burn  all  the  pea-brush  now  and  the 
little  paths  go  unhoed  all  autumn. 

It  was  a  bitter  emptiness,  and  still  bitterer 

was   the    thought    of    her    mother's    room, 

untenanted  by  that  gentle  spirit.     She  who 

had  been  the  center  of  life  at  Orchardhurst 

229 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

had  departed  her  way,  leaving  her  children 
alone  in  the  swept  and  garnished  house,  in 
the  aching  solitude  of  that  lonely  autumn. 

"It  almost  seems,"  said  Helen  to  Madge, 
"as  if  it  could  not  be  true.  I  think  some 
times  it  is  a  horrible  dream,  and  I  shall  wake 
and  come  downstairs  in  the  morning  to 
find  them  at  the  breakfast  table  just  as  I 
used." 

Madge's  grief  was  more  for  Helen  than 
for  her  own  loss.  It  seemed  as  if  the  very 
ground  had  been  taken  away  from  under 
Helen's  feet.  The  crushing  bereavement 
had  followed  so  closely  upon  Yvonne's  dis 
appearance,  and  then  Brockton,  as  soon  as 
was  decent,  sooner  than  was  kind,  had 
drifted  off  to"  that  limbo  of  aimless  Bohe- 
mianism,  abroad. 

Orchardhurst  was  to  be  closed  or  sold  and 
Helen  was  to  go  to  her  uncle,  Benjamin 
Wylie,  in  the  west. 

It  was  better  for  her  to  live  down  her  sor 
row  under  new  conditions,  and  there  in  her 
uncle's  childless  home  her  steady  will  soon 
asserted  itself,  and  she  resumed  life,  grave, 
it  is  true,  and  unbuoyant,  but  courageous  for 
the  future. 

She  fell   to  reading  the    serious  authors 
230 


THE   OLD    ORDER   CH    ^GETH 

which  she  found  in  her  uncle's  well-stocked 
library.  For,  although  a  business  man,  he 
dabbled  a  little  in  books,  and  liked  to  show 
on  his  shelves  such  names  as  Mazzini, 
Coate,  Spenser,  Benjamin  Kidd,  and  the 
Webbs.  He  was  distinctly  a  capitalist,  but 
if  he  had  not  been  that  he  would  surely  have 
been  a  socialist.  This  sounds  puerile,  but 
nevertheless  is  true.  It  was  through  Mazzini 
that  Helen  found  her  way  to  Arnold  House. 
She  took  a  class  and  then  her  fate  was 
sealed.  She  became  a  Fabian.  There  she 
heard  of  Willoughby,  for  the  Arnold  House 
people  were  his  staunch  adherents.  She 
began  to  wonder  how  she  would  find  him  if 
she  should  meet  him  again.  She  realized 
that  her  point  of  view  had  changed  since 
those  days  at  Orchardhurst. 

Willoughby  and  the  Fentons  made  a  pil 
grimage  that  same  year  to  La  Jeune 
Vallette.  Pierce  could  not  get  rid  of  the 
notion  that  Yvonne's  cousin  had  something 
to  do  with  her  disappearance. 

"The  fellow  has  an  iron  will,"  he  said, 
"and  was  bound  that  he  would  have 
Yvonne.  And  he  exerted  an  influence  over 
her  which  I  could  never  understand. ' ' 

"But,"  said  Mrs.  Fenton,  "think  of  her 
231 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

note.  There  seemed  to  be  no  coercion 
about  that. ' ' 

"One  never  can  know,"  replied  Will- 
oughby.  ' '  She  had  heard  from  him  the  even 
ing  before  her  disappearance.  Perhaps  he 
had  told  her  to  meet  him  somewhere  in  the 
city." 

"But  he  came  to  see  us  in  person,  Pierce, 
in  answer  to  our  letter  sent  to  Vallette, " 
argued  Madge,  "and  was  almost  crazed  over 
the  news." 

Pierce  shook  his  head  incredulously. 
Newspaper  experience  had  taught  him  to 
open  his  eyes  to  the  many  possible  solutions 
of  a  mystery. 

"The  letter  may  have  been  forwarded 
back  to  him  in  New  York,"  he  remarked, 
casually,  "and  the  manner  may  have  been 
assumed." 

"We  can  easily  find  out  at  La  Jeune 
Vallette  where  he  was  at  that  time,"  said 
Madge. 

"Unless  the  family  are  in  the  conspiracy, 
too,"  added  Fenton,  who  was  almost  con 
verted  to  Willoughby's  theory. 

The  visit  to  Yvonne's  former  home 
resulted  in  nothing.  Poleon  Gros-Louys  was 
there,  silent  and  moody.  They  saw  him  in 
232 


THE  OLD   ORDER   CHANGETH 

front  of  his  cottage,  making  a  canoe.  They 
learned  that  he  had  been  away  when  the 
letter  reached  Vallette,  hunting,  Madame 
said,  somewhere  in  the  woods.  They  had 
the  letter  sent  to  Chicoutimi,  where  they 
thought  he  might  happen  to  stop  on  his 
way  home.  They  could  learn  nothing  from 
Gros-Louys  himself,  who  only  scowled  and 
muttered  when  he  was  addressed.  The 
neighbors  said  he  had  been  like  that  ever 
since  his  return  from  hunting  the  winter 
before. 

So  they  left  the  little  village,  huddled  in 
picturesque  confusion  on  its  pine-circled 
upland,  within  sound  of  the  rushing  St. 
Gabriel.  The  bell  was  tolling  for  vespers  in 
the  Huron  chapel  as  they  went  by,  and  the 
people  were  straggling  in  to  service,  like 
sheep  dumbly  following  each  other  to  the 
fold.  Willoughby  slipped  away  from  the 
others  and  entered  the  chapel.  In  the  nar 
row  wooden  pews  the  people  knelt,  grossly 
reverent,  mumbling  their  prayers.  The 
silver  image  of  Our  Lady  looked  benignly 
down  on  the  altar-cloth,  embroidered  for 
her  by  the  wicked  ladies  of  Louis  the  Fif 
teenth's  wicked  court.  The  priest  was 
intoning  with  his  back  to  the  people,  and 

233 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

Yvonne's  half-brother,  in  white  surplice, 
held  the  tall  candle  up  behind  the  chancel 
railing.  There,  kneeling  and  mumbling, 
with  withered  hands  ^clasped,  was  the  oldest 
woman  in  the  village,  with  her  blanket 
wrapped  about  her  shoulders  and  falling  in 
fringes  over  her  baggy  trousers  below. 
And  by  her  side  was  her  husband,  toothless 
and  blind,  his  white  locks  strongly  con 
trasted  with  his  coppery,  netted  skin.  On 
the  floor,  in  front  of  their  low  bench,  knelt 
her  little  half-brothers  and  sisters,  a  bright- 
eyed,  nimble-tongued  brood.  Here  Will- 
oughby  had  sat  with  Yvonne,  years  ago, 
when  she  was  in  the  innocence  and  charm  of 
her  untaught  youth.  Here  she  had  knelt, 
in  her  red  knit  bodice  and  short  skirt,  and 
counted  off  the  beads  on  her  wooden 
rosary,  black  lashes  hiding  the  brilliance  of 
her  eyes.  Then  Willoughby  saw  another 
picture — glow  of  candle-light  and  crimson 
of  roses,  a  vision  in  yellow  that  smiles  at 
him  across  a  table. 

Willoughby  breathed   a   prayer   for   her 
safety  and  went  out, 


234 


CHAPTER  II 

A   RENEWED   ACQUAINTANCE 

Valentino  had  at  last  been  admitted  to 
Benjamin  Wylie's  office. 

"I  repersent  the  Dorsey  Square  Assosha- 
tion  of  Journeymen  Tailors  and  Finishers," 
he  began,  in  a  pleasant  tone,  "and  I  have 
came  to  you  as  one  of  the  biggest  employers 
and  perducers  of  tailor-made  garments ' ' 

Wylie  looked  steadily  at  the  young  man, 
noted  the  unkempt  black  hair  falling  over 
the  dejected  forehead  and  the  full  red  lips, 
also  the  battered  Derby  hat  and  the  tag  of 
thread  on  the  wrinkled  velveteen  waistcoat 
where  the  button  should  have  been.  Having, 
as  he  would  have  expressed  it,  sized  the 
young  man  up,  he  began  to  scrutinize  his 
own  polished  finger-nails,  with  gross  inat 
tention  to  the  speaker.  At  the  first  break 
he  was  intending  to  dismiss  him. 

Valentino  continued  unabashed : 

" to  s' licit  your  int'rust  and  your 

infloonce  in  a  matter  which  lays  to  the  heart 
235 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

of  yourself  and  your  employes  and  a  large 
body  of  sufferin'  poor." 

He  spoke  with  the  volubility  of  a  labor- 
union  orator,  the  long  words  rhythmically 
surging  up  at  intervals,  like  the  seventh 
wave  along  an  ocean  shore.  His  illiteracy 
was  of  the  cosmopolitan  nature  that  char 
acterizes  the  speech  of  the  partially  educated 
American  public  speaker.  Only  his  liquid 
tones  and  mellow  rolling  r's  betrayed  his 
foreign  origin. 

"What  do  you  want?"  said  Wylie,  not 
lifting  his  eyes  from  his  nails.  "Charity,  I 
suppose?" 

"Not  charity,  Mr.  Wylie.     Justice." 

A  note  of  imperiousness  in  the  stranger's 
voice  made  Wylie  look  at  him. 

Valentino  returned  the  look  with  his 
large,  glittering  eyes,  and  repeated,  rather 
melodramatically : 

"Not  charity,  Mr.  Wylie.     Justice." 

"Well?"  said  Wylie,  sharply. 

"You  send  out  from  these  here  cuttin'- 
rooms,  Mr.  Wylie,  garments  which  your 
men  finish  in  their  homes.  You  make  use 
to  give  them,  also,  to  outside  workers, 
as  bastes  and  hems  and  presses  them  in  the 
ten'ments  where  they  live." 
236 


A  RENEWED  ACQUAINTANCE 

"You  are  a  garment- worker?"  Wylie 
interrupted. 

"No.     I  am  an  ag'tator. " 

"You  are  paid  by " 

"No  one,"  Valentino  interrupted.  "I 
translate.  I  have  worked  on  Labor  Bureau 
Statistics.  I  keep  myself  so." 

"You  belong  to  some  Union  of  inside 
finishers?" 

"There  aren't  no  such  union,"  said  Valen 
tino. 

"Explain  yourself,"  said  Wylie,  with  the 
curtness  of  capital  to  labor. 

Valentino  laid  his  faded  brown  Derby  hat 
upon  the  floor  and  took  from  his  pocket  a 
mass  of  papers,  foolscap  sheets,  pasted 
together  in  a  long  string. 

"This  here  is  a  p'tition,  signed  by  eight 
hundred  and  ninety-six  fin'shers,  to  this 
following  uffect:  that  you  furnish  inside 
shops,  electric  power,  modern  machines,  and 
all  that,  for  the  op'rators  on  garments.  This 
will  remove  off  o'  you  the  infamy  uv  under- 
payin'  and  overworkin'  women  and  childrun. 
Your  employe's  won't  hev  no  more  chance  to 
kill  theirselves  slavin'  fer  you  nights  and  a 
big  number  more  who  are  out  uv  a  job  gets 
employment  steady." 
237 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

He  unrolled  the  yards  of  names  toward 
Mr.  Wylie,  who  took  up  the  soiled  end 
gingerly  between  shapely  finger  tips. 

"You  labor  agitators  are  never  satisfied," 
said  Mr.  Wylie.  "Is  it  not  enough  that  I 
employ  three  hundred  cutters  and  as  many 
finishers  and  give  them  the  best  of  facilities 
for  their  work?  If  they  take  garments  home 
to  finish,  it  is  so  much  more  money  in  their 
pockets. ' ' 

"But  ef  you  would  hev  give  them  work 
room  opportoonity,  with  machines  and  a 
plant  all  right,  their  lives  'ud  not  been 
threw  away  in  the  onwholesome  ten'ments, 
strainin' " 

"But  these  outside  workers,"  interrupted 
Mr.  Wylie,  with  the  magnanimity  of  one  who 
accepts  an  argument  thrust  upon  him,  "are 
women  and  children  who  must  work  in  their 
homes  or  not  at  all.  You  would  not  take 
the  bread  out  of  the  mouths  of  helpless 
widows  and  orphans.  It  is  such  people  who 
do  my  outside  work  during  our  busy 
season." 

Wylie  spoke  with  finality,  and  slid  down 
the  lid  of  his  desk.  Valentino  rose,  too,  and 
his  voice  trembled. 

"I'm  not  denyin*  that  leg  power  and 
238 


A  RENEWED   ACQUAINTANCE 

ten'ment  labor  is  cheaper,  but  it  is  God's 
word  I'm  repeating  that  the  laborer  is  worthy 
of  his  hire." 

Wylie  was  slipping  into  his  silk-lined  over 
coat. 

"You  are  ratin'  the  gold  uv  one  man  to  be 
higher  then  human  lives.  One  woman, 
stitched  to  her  grave ;  one  laborer,  hounded 
to  pauperism,  are  worth  more,  a  many 
fold,  than  the  lucre  you're  losin'  your  soul 
for." 

Valentino  stood  in  the  doorway  that  led 
from  the  merchant's  private  room  to  the 
outer  office. 

Wylie  made  no  answer.  He  was  indu 
rated  to  reiteration  and  insistence. 

Amasa  Valentino  pointed  a  lean,  brown 
finger  at  him  and  raised  his  voice. 

"Thus  saith  the  Lord — I'ull  cause  the  ar-r- 
rogancy  of  the  pr-roud  to  cease. ' ' 

The  trilling  of  his  r's  was  like  a  clarion 
herald's  cry  of  battle. 

"1'ull  make  a  man  more  pr-r-recious  than 
fine  gold;  even  a  man  than  the  golden 
wedge  of  Ophir-r. ' ' 

His  limp  collar  was  frayed  at  the  edges, 
his  waistcoat  was  unbuttoned  and  faded,  his 
finger  nails  were  dirty  and  untrimmed,  but 
239 


THE   LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

* 

at  that  moment  he  towered  above  the  mer 
chant  and  the  merchant  knew  it. 

The  smooth-haired  clerks  who  sat  at  their 
respective  desks  about  the  large  office  turned 
round  and  regarded  Valentino  with  curiosity 
as  he  walked  out  into  the  wareroom. 

Only  a  few  days  after  this  fruitless  inter 
view  Valentino  and  Willoughby  were  walk 
ing  together. 

"So  you  spake  the  words  of  the  Lord  to 
him,  like  any  modern  Jeremiah?" 

"I  did,"  answered  Valentino,  "and  found 
him  as  hardened  as  the  Israelites  of  old." 

His  Protestant  Piedmontese  training  made 
the  young  agitator  a  storehouse  of  Scrip 
tural  quotation. 

Willoughby  laughed  a  little,  and  then 
sighed. 

"If  you  had  asked  me  beforehand,  Valen 
tino,  I  should  have  told  you  not  to  attempt 
it.  It  is  a  waste  of  ammunition  as  yet.  Mr. 
Wylie,  to  the  world's  thinking,  is  an 
upright,  large-minded  man,  but,  of  course, 
in  the  Fabian  way,  unenlightened. ' ' 

"I  have  enlightened  him  a  little,"  said 
Valentino,  in  his  child-like  manner.  "The 
darkness  of  Egypt  was  upon  his  face." 

"It's  a  case  of  flesh-pots  with  all  of  them, 
240 


A  RENEWED   ACQUAINTANCE 

I  fancy,"  mused  Willoughby.  "Well,  the 
Monitor  is  going  to  make  a  fight  against 
tenement  labor.  The  sweat-shop  law  ought 
to  be  revised.  Perhaps  we  can  accomplish 
something  in  that  line." 

"With  our  present  legislature?" 

Valentino  shrugged  his  shoulders  incredu 
lously. 

"Mr.  Willoughby!" 

"Miss  Van  Eyck!" 

Willoughby  and  Helen  Van  Eyck  had  met 
face  to  face  upon  the  avenue. 

"This  is  an  agreeable  surprise.  You  are 
making  us  a  visit?" 

"No,  I  have  come  to  live.  I  am  with  my 
uncle,  Mr.  Wylie.  You  know  we  have  given 
up  Orchardhurst. ' ' 

Her  voice  was  a  little  uncertain.  The 
unexpected  sight  of  Willoughby  had  brought 
back  that  last  happy  year  with  her  parents 
and  the  memory  of  beloved  Yvonne. 

Willoughby's  eyes  were  misted  as  he  held 
out  his  hand  to  her  in  silent  sympathy. 

After  Valentino  had  been  introduced, 
Helen  told  of  her  class  at  Arnold  House,  for 
which  she  was  bound  that  afternoon. 

"I,  too."   said  Valentino.     "May   I   join 
you,  Miss  Van  Eyck?" 
241 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

Helen  assented,  somewhat  stiffly. 

The  results  of  that  afternoon  were  many. 

"A  few  months  ago,"  thought  Helen, 
"how  I  should  have  wondered!" 

That  a  man  could  dress  like  a  mechanic 
and  quote  Mazzini !  That  a  man  could  use 
bad  grammar  and  be  an  intellectual  stimulus 
to  her !  That  he  should  be  at  his  ease  with 
her  and  she  with  him ! 

These  were  some  of  the  things  at  which 
three  months  before  she  would  have  won 
dered.  She  was  still  new  enough  to  Arnold 
House  work  to  dwell  on  antitheses,  so  fre 
quent  as  to  be  commonplace  in  a  social 
settlement. 

Valentino  had  also  given  her  a  new  idea  of 
Willoughby.  She  learned  of  his  daily  sacri 
fices  and  of  his  political  valor.  She  began 
to  realize  that  devotion  to  a  cause  may  seem 
to  an  unsympathetic  outsider  like  egotistic 
aggressiveness.  She  had  a  glimpse  of  his 
relations  with  the  working  class.  She  was 
too  ignorant  then  to  know  how  vital  and 
simple  those  relations  were. 

"He's  one  of  God's  angels,"  Valentino 
had  said,  "with  a  head  of  iron  and  a  heart  of 
milk." 

"If  ever  I  done  a  good  day's  work  it's  this 
242 


A  RENEWED   ACQUAINTANCE 

one,"  said  Valentino,  coming  into  Will- 
oughby's  room  late  in  the  evening. 

Willoughby  raised  his  head  from  his  desk 
to  look  at  the  young  Italian. 

"I've  took  Benjamin  Wylie's  niece  about 
among  Benjamin  Wylie's  hired  laborer-rs." 

"Where  have  you  taken  Miss  Van  Eyck?" 

Willoughby's  tone  was  almost  stern. 

"Oh,  she  didn't  know  them  was  her 
uncle's  slaves.  I  didn't  tell  her.  She  had 
asked  me  to  take  her  among  some  of  my 
Italian  families.  So  I  did.  I  did." 

Valentino's  eyes  glittered  with  exulta 
tion. 

"She  won't  forget  it  in  many  a  long  day. 
We  went  to  the  Saranellis.  I  have  told  you 
about  them,  over  the  Jewish  butcher  shop  in 
a  rear  tenement  on  Liberty  Street.  What  a 
name  that  is,  Willoughby !  The  Stars  and 
Stripes  'ud  blush  to  wave  over  that  street. 
The  Saranellis,  you  know,  are  nigh  stitched 
to  death  a'ready.  The  child,  Giulio,  was 
dying  on  his  bed,  and  the  fine  cloaks  heaped 
above  him. ' ' 

The  cold  realism  of  Valentino's  tone  indi 
cated  pitiful  familiarity  with  suffering, 
familiarity  that  bred  self-repression,  not 
indifference. 

243 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG- FLOWERS 

"You  didn't  take  Miss  Van  Eyck  into  that 
hole?"  Willoughby  spoke  more  sternly. 

"I  did.  What  was  good  enough  for  her 
uncle's  cloaks  was  good  enough  for  her." 

Valentino's  face  was  uplifted. 

"But  I  didn't  tell  her  that.  She  only 
looked  about  and  looked  about,  and  put  her 
handkerchief  up  to  her  eyes.  I  told  her 
how  late  they  worked,  and  what  they  was 
paid.  She  listened  and  looked.  She  didn't 
ask  no  questions,  but  her  eyes  was  like  the 
pit  of  wrath." 

The  two  men  sat  silent  for  some  time. 

Then,  "You  will  call  upon  Miss  Van  Eyck, 
sometime?"  delicately,  from  Valentino. 

"I  think  so." 

"I  didn't  show  her  the  half.  She  couldn't 
hev  stood  no  more,  poor-r  young  lady.  Nor 
I  didn't  su'jest  no  rem'dy. " 

"You  left  that  for  me — I  understand." 

It  was  some  time  before  Willoughby 
plunged  into  his  work  again  that  evening. 
His  heart  burned  with  the  sense  of  impend 
ing  possibilities. 

When    he    called    on    Helen  they  had  a 

long,  long  talk.     She  asked  a  great  many 

questions,   and  he  told    her  a  great  many 

things.      Their    hand-clasp    when    he    left 

244 


A  RENEWED  ACQUAINTANCE 

meant  that  they  were  pledged  to  a  common 
cause.  There  is  nothing  that  will  bring  a 
man  and  woman  more  quickly  together  than 
to  be  pledged  to  a  common  cause. 

"My  uncle  wants  to  meet  you,"  said 
Helen  to  him  the  next  time  they  met. 
"The  Monitor  represents  a  great  deal  that 
politically  he's  opposed  to,  of  course,  but 
he's  interested  in  the  things  you  say.  I'm 
going  to  have  you  over  to  dinner  next  week, 
if  you'll  come.  We're  very  commonplace 
and  uninteresting  after  Bohemia,  I  know. 
But  you  will  consent,  won't  you?" 

"It  will  be  a  privilege,  Miss  Van  Eyck. " 

"But  you  mustn't  speak  about — about  It. 
I've  been    talking  to    him,   and  he's  quite 
stirred    up.       He     mustn't     dream     for    a 
moment  that  he's  being  managed.     It  must- 
be  all  his  own  initiative." 

"I  understand.  And  thank  you,  Miss  Van 
Eyck." 

Helen  was  delighted  at  the  result  of  the 
acquaintance  she  brought  about  between  her 
uncle  and  Pierce  Willoughby.  She  was 
devoted  to  her  uncle  and  valued  his  personal 
judgments.  He  conceived  a  great  liking  for 
Willoughby,  and  opposed  as  their  views 
were,  each  admired  the  other. 
245 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

"He's  got  a  pretty  clear  head,  that  fel 
low,"  said  Mr.  Wylie,  "and  he's  a  man, 
straight  through.  You  would  never  have 
expected  it,  with  his  opinions." 

"You  respect  his  opinions,  too,  uncle?" 
Helen  asked,  smiling.  "They  are  part  of 
him." 

"I  do,  my  dear,  I  do.  If  I  were  as  free  as  he 
is,  I  might  do  differently — maybe,  maybe." 

"Why  are  you  not  free,  Uncle  Benjamin? 
With  your  money  and  your  influence  you 
might  do  so  much. ' ' 

"That's  the  trouble,  Helen.  My  money 
ties  me  down.  You  don't  understand  " 

He  pulled  his  gray  mustache  thoughtfully. 
Helen  sat  closer  to  him  and  laid  her  hand 
affectionately  in  his.  The  seed  she  had 
planted  had  begun  to  grow. 

"Let  me  understand,  uncle,"  she  said, 
gently.  "Let  us  talk  about  things 
together. ' ' 

As  time  went  on,  Willoughby  learned 
more  of  Helen's  needs  and  desires.  She 
wanted  to  devote  her  life  to  serious  ends 
and  thought  somewhat  of  journalism.  She 
was  clever  with  her  pen  and  keen-witted 
enough  to  perceive  the  elements  of  a  suc 
cessful  "story." 

246 


A  RENEWED   ACQUAINTANCE 

After  she  had  done  some  apprentice  work 
on  special  subjects,  Willoughby  made  a 
place  for  her  on  the  Monitor. 

A  deep  and  sincere  nature  that  errs  in 
judgment  of  another  is  apt  to  indulge  in  an 
almost  expiatory  admiration  after  that  early 
judgment  is  reversed.  It  was  somewhat  so 
with  Helen,  as  regards  Pierce.  This  sense 
of  her  past  injustice  made  her  heart  open 
more  widely  than  would  otherwise  have 
been  possible  to  the  magnetic  influence  of 
Willoughby 's  strong  and  winning.personality. 

Helen  sat  in  her  room  one  evening  read 
ing,  when  she  came  upon  a  little  newspaper 
slip  between  the  pages  of  the  book.  It  con 
tained  a  wood-cut  of  Willoughby,  taken  from 
some  western  paper.  Yvonne,  long  ago, 
had  given  it  to  her,  half  in  fun,  and  under 
neath  had  written,  "For  Helen."  Helen 
looked  long  and  earnestly  at  the  familiar 
features,  firm  and  characteristic  even  in  the 
wood-cut,  and  smiled  at  the  inscription  in 
Yvonne's  Frenchy,  irregular  little  hand, 
"For  Helen."  It  set  her  to  thinking,  and 
while  she  was  thinking,  she  smiled,  uncon 
sciously. 

It  was  a  gusty  August  night.     The  wind 
blew  and  the  rain  slapped  against  the  win- 
247 


THE   LADY  OP  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

dow.  And  now  Helen's  thoughts  turned  to 
Yvonne.  Strange  little,  half -real  creature, 
slipped  away  so  utterly  out  of  her  life.  She 
took  Verony's  portrait  and  studied  Yvonne's 
face.  The  Indian  blood  ran  very  faint  in 
her,  but  Helen  had  always  felt  the  inscru 
table  shadow  of  the  forest  in  her  eyes.  The 
French  laughter,  gaiety  and  grace  were 
what  others  saw. 

"But  you  might  as  well  seek  your  reflec 
tion  in  a  waterfall  as  understand  the  soul  in 
Yvonne,"  said  to  herself  Helen.  "Like  a 
waterfall,  she  continually  slips  from  you, 
foam  and  gleam  atop,  but  underneath  the 
compelling  call  of  the  sea. ' ' 

Helen  fell  asleep  and  dreamed.  She  sat 
in  the  library  of  her  country  home.  Her 
feet  rested  against  the  fender  of  the  fire 
place.  The  coals  glowed  in  the  grate.  It 
was  half-dark  in  the  room,  but  the  fire-light 
glinted  here  and  there,  touching  a  little 
table  by  the  window  where  Yvonne's  hat 
lay,  the  yellow  straw  hat  with  the  black- 
eyed  Susans  around  it.  In  the  glass  above 
the  mantle  Helen  saw  a  man  standing  in  the 
doorway.  Softly  he  came  forward.  He 
saw  the  yellow  hat  and  touched  it  with  a 
sort  of  reverent  amusement. 
248 


A   RENEWED   ACQUAINTANCE 

"Because  it  is  Yvonne's,"  Helen  thought, 
with  a  curious  pull  at  her  heart. 

In  the  semi-light  she  was  as  yet  unob 
served.  Then  he  walked  slowly  to  the  fire 
place,  Helen  watching  him  in  the  glass. 
She  felt  his  presence  behind  her. 

"I  will  shut  my  eyes  and  seem  asleep," 
she  thought. 

The  delicious  touch  of  finger-tips  was 
on  her  temples,  and  a  man's  lips  were 
pressed  to  her  forehead.  Then  she  began  to 
awake. 

"He  thought  I  was  Yvonne,"  she  said,  in 
the  first  stupor  of  transition  from  dream  to 
reality.  Again  was  that  curious  pull  at  her 
heart. 

As  consciousness  cleared,  she  became 
aware  that  the  face  of  the  man  in  the 
glass  was  the  face  of  Pierce  Willoughby. 

From  this  time  on,  harder  than  any  other 
task  that  she  performed  was  the  task  of  con 
cealing  her  love  for  Willoughby,  a  love 
which  was  both  the  joy  and  the  pain  of  her 
life. 

Manners    are    somewhat    clipped    in    the 

west,   and    especially  in    a    big  newspaper 

house  where  every  one  is  rushed  for  time 

and  the  spirit  of    merciless  competition  is 

249 


THE  LADY  OP  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

rife.  No  one,  however,  had  ever  failed  to 
pay  Miss  Van  Eyck  her  due  of  deference. 
She  carried  with  her  an  atmosphere  of 
gentle  breeding  which  was  felt  even  by  pert 
office-boys  and  jaunty  stenographers.  The 
lily-like  erectness  of  her  carriage,  which 
was  her  chief  distinction,  had  its  counter 
part  in  her  character.  Fastidious  without 
affectation,  and  proud  without  haughtiness, 
she  went  about  her  daily  work,  making  few 
friends,  no  enemies. 

A  Dr.  Shriver,  one  of  their  advertising 
agents,  always  seemed  nettled  by  Helen's 
reserve.  He  was  one  of  those  men  who 
must  always  be  with  every  one  on  a  familiar 
footing.  With  his  great  red  cheeks,  adorned 
by  pendent,  crinkly  whiskers,  his  small  eyes, 
gleaming  with  gross  mirth,  and  his  greasy 
waistcoat,  unbuttoned'  over  the  portly 
stomach,  he  was  the  one  person  whom 
Helen  dreaded  to  meet.  He  would,  as  he 
went  by,  compliment  the  women  on  their 
good  looks  and  jocularly  poke  the  men,  his 
fat  sides  shaking  with  laughter. 

Willoughby  heard  one  day  in  Helen's 
office,  adjoining  his,  the  unctuous  voice  of 
Dr.  Shriver. 

"I  wish  the  man  would  keep  his  place," 
250 


A   RENEWED    ACQUAINTANCE 

he  thought,  knowing  the  discomfort  Helen 
experienced  in  his  presence. 

A  burst  of  laughter  from  the  beef-eater 
was  suddenly  checked  by  something  from 
Helen  which  he  could  not  hear,  and  then 
her  words  came  to  him  as  her  office  door  was 
opened. 

"Good-day,  Dr.  Shriver.  I  must  beg  of 
you  not  to  call  again,  as  I  shall  always  be  too 
busy  to  see  you." 

Willoughby  heard  her  clear,  cutting  tone, 
and  felt  the  scorn  which  dilated  her  nostrils 
and  flashed  from  her  eyes. 

The  next  moment  Dr.  Shriver  was  at  his 
door.  Willoughby  wheeled  round  sharply 
in  his  chair,  ready  to  rebuke  the  man 
severely  if  he  had  the  chance,  but  Shriver 
spoke  first.  Raising  his  voice  spitefully,  he 
said: 

"Tell  your  lady-love,  Willoughby,  she 
needn't  be  so  d d  offish " 

"Out  of  here,"  roared  Willoughby, 
aroused  at  the  man's  insult.  He  sprang 
from  his  chair  and  Dr.  Shriver,  like  a  cowed 
bully,  shambled  rapidly  down  the  corridor. 

"Don't  you  ever  show  your  face  in  these 
offices  again,"  he  added,  angrily,  following 
him  to  the  elevator. 

251 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

Shriver  muttered  sheepishly  about  "some 
people  who  couldn't  take  a  joke." 

Willoughby  went  to  explain  matters  to  the 
""chief,"  and  that  day  the  Englishman  lost 
his  job. 

Helen,  leaving  the  office  at  five  o'clock, 
passed  Willoughby  in  the  hall.  She  gave 
him  a  grateful  smile  as  they  bowed,  and  he 
noticed  how  flushed  and  tired  she  looked. 

Not  long  after  this  was  Memorial  Day. 
Otto  Pfeffer  persuaded  Willoughby  to  remit 
work  for  a  few  hours.  He  had  arranged  a 
partie  carree  for  the  north  shore.  He  had 
married,  some  time  before,  a  little  school 
teacher,  a  rosy-cheeked  young  woman  who 
had  been  a  classmate  of  his  at  college.  In 
marrying  him  she  had  married  his  philos 
ophy  as  well.  They  kept  house  together  on 
the  dingy  street,  and  while  he  visited  his 
patients,  she  made  friends  with  her  polyglot 
neighbors  or  read  Hegelian  treatises  in  the 
barely-furnished  front  room.  It  was  Otto's 
plan  that  Willoughby  should  invite  Miss  Van 
Eyck.  He  himself  would  be  accompanied 
by  his  wife. 

The  woods  on  the  bluff  murmured  sooth 
ingly.  All  about  them  under  the  trees  the 
mandrake  held  up  its  little  green  umbrella 
252 


A  RENEWED   ACQUAINTANCE 

over  its  precious  waxen  bud.  A  few  late 
violets  were  in  bloom.  The  water  stretched 
away,  an  iridescent  sheet,  rippling  from 
amber-brown,  pale  green  and  pinkish- 
amethyst  near  the  shore  to  deeper  greens 
and  blues  and  violet  purple  out  toward  the 
sky-line. 

Helen  had  her  Arnold  with  her.  The 
Pfeffers  had  settled  themselves  some  dis 
tance  away.  They  had  brought  with  them  a 
bulky  volume  of  Schopenhauer  for  light 
reading. 

"It  is  not  moonlight,  but  let  us  have 
Dover  Beach,"  said  Willoughby. 

He  ensconced  himself  comfortably  against 
a  tree.  Helen  read.  As  she  turned  a  leaf 
a  scrap  of  paper  fluttered  to  the  ground.  It 
was  the  wood-cut,  with  Yvonne's  inscrip 
tion.  Pierce  put  out  his  hand  to  catch  it. 

"Don't!  Give  it  to  me!"  Helen  cried, 
quickly.  Her  dream  was  vivid  in  her  mind. 

A  second  after  she  could  have  bitten  the 
tongue  out  of  her  head  for  those  words. 
For,  as  she  spoke,  Willoughby,  looking  at  it, 
read  aloud  the  brief  inscription  and  turned 
to  her  with  a  smile  and  a  casual  remark  upon 
his  lips.  Poor  Helen!  Somehow,  she  had 
lost  hold  of  herself,  and  she  knew  it.  As 

253 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG- FLOWERS 

her  eyes  met  his  they  told  her  story.  Noth 
ing  that  might  happen  could  alter  it.  Will- 
oughby  was  keener-visioned  in  such  matters 
than  he  had  been  years  ago.  A  simple  look 
had  laid  her  soul  bare.  Her  scarlet  cheeks 
were  unwilling  witness  to  the  betrayal. 
Willoughby  was  glad  for  her  that  no  third 
person  was  present. 

"You  read,"  she  said,  abruptly  handing 
him  the  book. 

He  took  it  gravely,  not  looking  at  her, 
and  read  on  without  interruption  till  the 
Pfeffers  rejoined  them.  As  for  Helen,  she 
was  like  one  who  sees  the  springs  where  her 
life  rose  and  the  sea  where  it  goes. 

Helen's  aunt,  Mrs.  Wylie,  was  at  home 
just  then  for  one  of  her  brief  visits.  She 
was  one  of  those  globe-trotting  women 
whose  health  requires  a  different  climate  for 
every  season  of  the  year.  Disapproving 
much  of  Helen's  serious  tendencies,  she 
looked  her  over  critically. 

"Your  eyes  are  too  large,  my  dear,  and 
your  hands  tremble.  You  had  better  drop 
this  beastly  scribbling  of  yours,  and  go  with 
me  to  Norway  this  summer. ' ' 

"I  think  it  is  only  a  change  of  work  I 
need,"  replied  Helen.  "Perhaps  I  had 
254 


A   RENEWED  ACQUAINTANCE 

better  consider  Mr.  Hathaway 's  offer,"  she 
turned  to  her  uncle,  "and  do  the  reviewing 
for  his  magazine.  The  hours  would  not  be 
so  long  nor  the  office-routine  so  exacting. ' ' 
With  no  weak  longing  nor  despair  she  set 
her  face  toward  the  future.  For  time  will 
bring  opiate  of  forgetfulness,  and  life  will 
bring  tonic  of  labor. 


255 


CHAPTER   III 

CONSUMMATION 

"I  think  that  I  must  abide  by  my  deci 
sion,"  said  Helen,  looking,  as  she  spoke,  at 
the  glass  paper-weight  on  Willoughby's 
desk. 

"We  will  ease  up  the  work  for  you,  Miss 
Van  Eyck.  We  will  get  some  one  else  to 
take  the  current  notes.  You  may  arrange 
your  office-hours  to  suit  yourself. ' ' 

' '  What  an  ugly  one ! ' '  thought  Helen,  still 
looking  at  the  paper-weight.  "I  wonder  if 
he  has  no  better." 

"We  would  do  a  great  deal  to  keep  you 
with  us.  We  consider  your  work  valuable. ' ' 

"You  are  kind,  Mr.  Willoughby. "  Helen 
had  raised  her  eyes  to  his  watch-chain,  and 
was  counting  the  links.  "It  is  not  merely 
that  the  work  is  too  taxing. ' ' 

"If  there  is  any  other  department " 

"No,  no.  I  should  not  wish  you  to  make 
any  change " 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  his  cravat,  and 
decided  that  he  had  tied  it  himself. 

257 


THE  LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

"I  do  not  urge  you  for  our  sake  alone, 
Miss  Van  Eyck.  Whatever  is  best  for  your 
self,  of  course " 

Willoughby  was  interested  in  her  literary 
success,  and  felt  that  the  change  she  con 
templated  would  be  a  misstep  for  her. 

Helen  was  grateful  for  the  dryness  of  his 
advice. 

"If  you  would  take  the  week's  vacation, 
Miss  Van  Eyck,  which  you  so  much  need, 
and  during  that  time  leave  the  matter  open, 
we  should  be  obliged  to  you." 

Helen  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face. 

' '  I  will  do  so, ' '  she  replied,  hating  herself 
for  her  weakness. 

Willoughby,  in  the  courteous  fashion  that 
he  had,  accompanied  her  to  the  elevator. 
A  "He's  an  awful  nice  man,  don't  you  think 
so?"  graciously  remarked  Miss  Donahue,  a 
stenographer,  as  they  descended  together. 
"He  seems  kinder  young,  but  he's  a  smart 
writer,  and  a  regular  dude  f er  politeness. ' ' 
J  The  place  seemed  sordid  without  Miss  Van 
Eyck.  Willoughby  missed  his  frequent 
contact  with  her  mind.  He  learned  how 
much  he  had  been  relying  on  her  quick, 
clear  judgments  and  sympathetic  analyses. 

"We  must  get  her  back,"  he  thought,  as 
258 


CONSUMMATION 

he  read  the  tamer  copy  that  her  substitute 
sent  in. 

When  her  week's  vacation  lengthened  to 
two  he  found  that  he  missed  something 
besides  her  judgments  and  analyses.  He 
missed  her. 

When  Helen  learned  of  her  uncle's  final 
determination  to  furnish  inside  work-rooms 
for  the  finishing  of  his  custom-made  gar 
ments,  her  heart  leaped  with  joy.  It  was  a 
forward  step  in  industrial  progress. 

If,  through  her  instrumentality,  in  even  a 
small  degree,  it  had  been  effected — how 
Amasa  Valentino's  eyes  would  glow  and  his 
voice  would  thrill!  Pierce  Willoughby  also 
— she  tried  to  repress  a  too  personal  emotion 
at  the  thought  of  the  pleasure  he  would 
feel. 

She  sent  a  special  messenger  inviting 
them  both  to  dinner  that  evening. 

"I  have  a  piece  of  good  news  for  you," 
she  added  in  her  note. 

Willoughby,  on  account  of  the  invitation, 
returned  from  the  office  earlier  than  usual. 
He  stepped  across  the  hall  to  Valentino's 
room.  Valentino,  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and 
stocking-feet,  was  standing  over  his  little 
oil-stove,  stewing  some  dried  tomatoes. 
259 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

"We  are  bid  out  to  dinner,  Valentino," 
said  Willoughby,  "with  Benjamin  Wylie. " 
-  There  was  an  unusual  light  in  his  eyes. 

Valentino  turned  round,  the  iron  spoon  in 
his  hand.  He  understood  the  "we"  in  its 
editorial  sense.  He  waved  the  spoon 
ironically : 

"You  go  to  sup  with  princes  and  poten 
tates,"  he  replied.  "It  is  well." 

"Miss  Van  Eyck  has  invited  us  both.  She 
says  she  has  some  good  news  for  us.  You 
will  go?" 

Valentino  stooped  and  picked  up  a  shoe 
from  under  the  bed.  It  was  rusty-red  color, 
and  the  sole  was  half  gone.  He  laid  it 
down  and  held  up  the  other.  It  was  cracked 
and  split  across  the  uppers. 

"My  gala  best,"  he  said,  calmly.  "Pre 
sent  my  excuses.  Tell  her  I  have  a  previous 
engagement,  a  date  with  the  Conto  di  Rag- 
gedo  Boota.  That  is  myself." 

"Come,"  said  Willoughby.  "The  shoes 
can  be  blacked.  They  will  pass  muster. ' ' 

"There  are  other  engagements,"  pursued 
Valentino,  pointing  to  his  frayed  and  faded 
coat  that  hung  upon  the  wall,  "with  the 
Barono  di  Tatterda  Coata.  No,  my  friend, 
it  is  impossible.  I  cannot  condescend  to  go. 
260 


CONSUMMATION 

I  am  too  proud  to  wear  my  insignia  among 
the  ignorant.  Addio. " 

Willoughby  and  Helen  sat  before  the  open 
fire  in  the  library.  It  was  a  chilly  June 
evening.  It  was  not  seven  o'clock,  and  Mr. 
Wylie  had  not  yet  returned  from  town. 
Mrs.  Wylie,  upstairs,  was  making  her  usual 
elaborate  dinner-toilette.  Helen  unfolded 
to  Willoughby  her  uncle's  plans,  while  the 
firelight  played  on  her  thin,  delicate  face. 
Her  expression  was  almost  etherealized. 
Pierce,  as  he  watched  and  listened,  felt  steal 
over  him  a  tranquil  sense  of  solitude  a 
deux,  and  perfect  harmony  with  one's  com 
panion.  He  looked  at  Helen  with  new  eyes, 
and  decided  that  she  was  the  woman. 

When  dinner  was  announced  much  had 
happened  between  them.  It  was  a  very  happy 
dinner  for  them  both.  Mr.  Wylie  seemed 
nobler  and  larger-hearted  than  he  had  ever 
seemed  before.  Mrs.  Wylie,  even,  was  less 
frivolous  and  worldly-minded  than  had  been 
her  wont. 

They  had  a  few  moments  alone  with  Mr. 
Wylie  before  Willoughby  left.  Willoughby 
told  Helen's  uncle  of  the  promise  his  niece 
had  given  him. 

Benjamin  Wylie  put  a  hand  upon  the 
261 


THE  LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

shoulder  of  each.  "My  daughter  and  my 
son,"  he  said,  tenderly. 

Willoughby  stood  over  Valentino's  bed  at 
eleven  o'clock  that  night.  He  told  him  first 
the  gospel  of  the  workshop.  He  ended 
with  the  gospel  of  the  heart. 

Valentino  sprang  up  and  embraced  him. 

"Let  us  give  thanksgiving  together  and 
make  a  solemn  sound, ' '  he  cried. 

"Not  too  solemn  a  sound,  though,"  said 
Willoughby,  "the  Bohemian  woman  beneath 
has  a  sick  baby. ' ' 

"And  will  you  bring  her  over  here  to 
live,"  asked  the  Italian,  "a  la  modo  Pfeff- 
erino?" 


262 


CHAPTER   IV 

THE    CLEAR    FOUNTAIN 

"You  just  lay  down  a  bit,  dearie,  and  rest 
yoursel',"  said  the  woman,  "while  I  run  out 
and  fetch  a  jug  of  milk  and  some  marmalade 
for  our  tea. ' ' 

The  girl  lay  down  wearily  upon  the  carpet- 
covered  sofa,  and  scrutinized  for  the  hun 
dredth  time  the  print  of  Queen  Victoria  and 
the  lithograph  of  Derby  Day,  that  hung 
upon  the  wall. 

"Has  Minchins  come  again  with  that  bill 
for  the  dress?"  asked  the  girl,  when  the 
woman  returned. 

"Never  you  mind  if  'e  'as,  the  nasty 
thing.  'E  can  wait  till  the  h'end  of  the 
week.  'E  won't  go  starvin'.  You'll  be  get 
ting  your  wage  by  a  Saturday,  won't  you?" 

The  girl  nodded. 

"An*  you  did  fine,  this  h' afternoon.  Cur 
rant,  that's  my  sister's  'usband,  'e  says, 
'She's  gettin'  to  'andle  'er  legs  better'  (hex- 
cusin'  the  disrespec'  to  you,  dear,  'e  don't 
mean  naught).  They  giv'  you  a  good  call 
back  last  night,  too.  You're  dark,  but 
263 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG  -  FLOWERS 

good-lookin',  when  you're  made-up,  in  par 
ticular " 

"Tell  me,  Eliza,  am  I  dark,  too  dark  for 
an  English  girl — like  an  Indian  or  a  gypsy?" 

"Laws,  no.  They  be  poor  critters,  as 
can't  talk  h'English. " 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments, 
while  the  woman  bustled  about  the  room 
preparing  tea. 

"Mr.  Brockton  was  'ere  to  see  you  this 
morning.  'Ere's  'is  bloomin'  pasteboard. 
But  I  wouldn't  waken  you,  becuz  you  was 
sleepin'  sweet  as  a  baby." 

"I'm  glad  you  didn't,  Eliza.  He  knows  I 
don't  wish  to  see  him." 

"I  didn't  like  the  looks  of  'im,  not  at  all. 
'E  'ad  the  smell  of  drink  on  'im,  an'  'e 
'andled  'is  sovereigns  too  free.  There 
dassn't  none  o'  them  fine  gentry  come 
palaverin'  round  me  or  I'll  show  'em  the 
way  h'out,  double-quick,  too.  Currant,  'e 
knows  'ow  to  deal  with  such  trash.  'E's  got 
a  wrist  like  a  h'ox's." 

"Eliza,  dear,  tell  me,  shall  I  ever,  ever  be 
a  great  actress?  Shall  I  be  even  as  good  as 
Bella  Percy?  Answer  me  truly,"  the  girl 
asked,  after  a  pause.  "Am  I  as  good  as 
Bella  Percy,  for  instance?" 
264 


THE  CLEAR   FOUNTAIN 

"No,  dearie,  I  can't  just  say  you're  as 
good  as  Bella  Percy.  Not  so  catchy-like, 
you  might  say.  She  don't  mind  if  a  fellow 
gives  her  a  smack  on  the  cheek,  after  the 
curtain  drops.  That's  what  Currant,  'e 
says.  An'  she  tips  'em  all  the  wink,  the 
hussy.  But  they  likes  it,  they  does.  Let 
me  show  you,  Miss,  'ow  you  must  do.  I've 
been  goin'  to  them  music- 'alls  now  fifteen 
years  excep'  for  the  time  I  was  in  the 
States,  an'  I  knows  all  their  tricks." 

She  lifted  her  skirt,  displaying  her  clumsy 
ankles  in  their  unbleached  cotton  stockings. 

"My  legs  ain't  as  good  as  yours,  but  I'll 
just  give  you  a  taste  of  the  h'idea.  You 
throws  your  foot  h'out  so,  an'  you  kicks 
'igh — 'igher  than  that.  It's  h'all  in  my 
head,  but  I  can't  just  do  it  with  my  feet. 
They're  contrary.  Then  you  cocks  your 
pretty  'cad  to  one  side  an'  looks  knowin'  an' 
sings  it  so. ' ' 

It  would  have  been  whimsical  were  it  not 
pathetic,  to  see  the  thick-set  middle-aged 
woman  trying  to  instruct  the  black-eyed  girl 
in  the  art  of  vaudeville. 

"The  trouble  is,"  said  the  girl,  rising 
impetuously  and  letting  an  unregarded  sofa- 
pillow  fall  on  the  ffoor  behind  her,  "I  don't 
265 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

want  to  do  it.  I  could  do  it  well,  but  I 
don't  want  to." 

The  woman  quietly  picked  up  the  pillow. 

"You're  above  it,  dear,"  she  said. 
"That's  my  h'understandin'  of  it.  I  can  see 
it  in  your  face  while  you  stand  there  a- 
singin'.  You  looks  at  the  beer-mugs,  an' 
the  smoke,  an'  all  the  togged-out  girls  there 
from  the  East  End,  and  then,  just  as  you  is 
goin'  to  let  yourself  h'out  an'  all  the  men  is 
ready  to  clap  you,  you  draws  back  into  your 
shell  an'  it  flats  out. ' ' 

"It's  not  what  I  was  meant  for,"  cried  the 
girl,  passionately.  "But  when  I  play  in 
Marianne — Mr.  Barry  is  using  his  influence 
to  get  me  in  with  the  Druid  Company — 
then,  I  will  put  my  whole  soul  into  it.  My 
whole  soul!" 

The  girl  ended  almost  with  a  sob.  She 
went  to  the  window,  and  stood  with  her 
back  to  the  woman,  looking  out  into  the 
street.  When  she  turned  round,  there  were 
tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Little  Hilaire  will  be  eight  years  old 
to-day,"  she  said,  "and  think  of  it!  He  was 
only  a  baby  when  I  left.  And  Ernestine, 
she  may  be  married  by  this  time.  They  have 
all  forgotten  me,  even  maman,  for  she  has 

266 


THE  CLEAR  FOUNTAIN 

her  other  little  ones.     They  have  all  for 
gotten  me." 

The  girl  repeated  it  wistfully. 

"All  except  my  cousin.  He  will  never 
forget.  My  poor  cousin. ' ' 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Laws,  dearie,  don't  take  on  so." 

The  girl  pushed  away  the  comforting  hand 
and  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  strange  upward 
gesture  of  her  arms.  She  seemed  as  a  bird 
with  clipped  wings  that  vainly  attempts  to  fly. 

"Pol6on,  I  am^ coming!"  she  screamed. 
"I  hear  you  calling  me.  I  will  come. 
A-ah " 

"What  is  it,  dearie?  'Ave  you  got  a  pain 
to  your  stummick?  Take  a  few  draps  of 
this  cordial.  'Twas  a  shillin'  a  bottle.  It's 
sure  to  be  fine. ' ' 

"I  am  going  to  my  people — I  am  going  to 
Pole*on."  The  girl  turned  fiercely  upon  the 
woman. 

"Straight  away,  Miss?"  said  the  woman, 
soothingly.  "But  you  'aven't  the  money  to 
go  to  Polong." 

"Wait  a  minute.  I  will  sing  them  a 
French  song  to-night.  Be  quiet!  It  will 
come  to  me  in  a  moment.  Hush!  Now  I 
have  it.  Listen ! ' ' 

267 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

The  girl  stood  still,  gaze  fixed  on  the 
pastry-shop  sign  across  the  street.  She  saw 
the  plumes  of  a  pine-tree  waving  darkly 
against  a  blue  sky.  The  sound  of  a  distant 
waterfall  came  to  her  ears,  mixed  with  the 
laughter  of  children. 

She  sang.  The  soul  of  the  waterfall  was 
in  her  voice,  wild,  mysterious,  unearthly : 

"A  la  claire  fontaine 

M'en  allant  promener 
J'ai  trouve*  1'eau  si  belle, 
Que  je  m'y  suis  baigne 

Lui  ya  long  temps  que  je  t'aime, 

Jamais  je  ne  t'oublierai." 


The  melody  is  heart-breaking. 


s\  z               p 

!               I  l            I 

i      P  j 

f(\\  I              J      • 

*            ^            * 

9 

SazaE   •        * 

*            * 

V        i*       IV 

j         |v      ^ 

r 

r     P        i 

XL 

.  p 

3oS     *      J      * 

^            *         m  — 

*      -j       * 

"Jamais  je  ne  t'oublierai," 
the  girl  sang  over. 

The  woman  sat  on  the  sofa,  her  apron  up 
to  her  eyes.     The  girl  sang  on  with  the  look 
268 


THE  CLEAR  FOUNTAIN 

of  a  star-gazer  on  her  face.  She  was  deaf  to 
her  own  voice.  In  the  humble  little  room, 
it  floated  like  a  living  thing. 

"Sous  les  feuilles  d'un  chene 
Je  me  suis  fait  secher, 
Sur  la  plus  haute  branche 
Le  rossignol  chantait. 

Lui  ya  long  temps  que  je  t'aime, 
Jamais  je  ne  t'oublierai." 

The  singing  voice  soared  up.  The  ceiling 
became  the  sky,  and  there  was  infinite  space 
within  the  four  walls  of  the  room. 

"Sur  la  plus  haute  branche 
Le  rossignol  chantait 
Chante,  rossignol,  chante, 
Toi  qui  as  le  coeur  gai. 

Lui  ya  long  temps  que  je  t'aime, 

Jamais  je  ne  t'oublierai." 

The  woman  rocked  back  and  forth  on  the 
sofa,  weeping.  The  voice  cleft  its  way  once 
more  through  upper  air,  a  lost  bird  seeking 
for  its  mate.  Exquisite  despair  poured 
forth  like  wine  from  a  broken  goblet. 
269 


THE  LADY   OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

"Chante,  rossignol,  chante, 
Toi  qui  as  le  coeur  gai, 
Tu  as  le  coeur  a  rire, 
Moi,  je  l'ai-t-a  pleurer. 
Lui  ya  long  temps  que  je  t'aime. 
Jamais  je  ne  t'oublierai. " 

The  spent  voice  drifted  downward.  That 
wistfullest  of  all  songs  ebbed  out  like  a  sob 
bing  tide  upon  the  shore. 


~  A  A 

r  r      j     •  pr 

irn/i 

v       *       J 

*     « 

i     i 

lEZaE 

£                i 

-0- 

V      r 

s     .. 

p       N 

-rL    J 

R   t  J      r 

-    IS    -K 

J                     - 

-m-*- 

•   /^     J 

•     * 

-0  —  0- 

a      «      j. 
« 

"You  do  be  breakin'  my  'eart,  Miss 
Yvonne,"  said  the  woman,  shamefacedly 
mopping  her  eyes. 

"But  h'it's  enough  to  make  a  cow  cry.  If 
they  don't  be  all  beasts  at  the  'all  to-night, 
you'll  bring  down  the  'ouse  as  sure  as  my 
name's  Eliza  Blodgett. " 

The  woman,  since  she  had  left  service, 
had  relapsed  into  the  Cockneyism  in  which 
she  had  been  bred. 

"The  voice  of  you  when  you  sang  that 
270 


THE   CLEAR   FOUNTAIN 

'long-long' !  It  went  right  to  my  'ead  like 
a  glass  of  spirits. ' ' 

A  feverish  flush  had  overspread  Yvonne's 
face.  The  woman  drew  her  down  beside  her 
on  the  sofa,  and  laid  her  cool  hard  palm  upon 
the  girl's  hot  forehead. 

"You  'ave  het  yourself  all  h'up,  dearie. 
Now  set  down  an'  'ave  a  dish  of  tea  an'  a 
bit  of  bun.  You'll  be  a-coolin'  while 
you're  a-h'eatin'." 


271 


CHAPTER  V 

AN    APRIL    MIRACLE 

It  was  April,  but  still  winter  in  La  Jetme 
Valletta.  The  snow  lay  white  on  the  open 
spaces  of  the  Laurentian  hills,  and  gleamed 
between  the  dark  trunks  on  its  forest-clad 
slopes.  In  the  meadows  of  the  habitans  the 
brown  grasses  flecked  here  and  there  the 
white  mantle  of  snow,  and  by  the  many 
fences  bounding  their  long,  narrow  fields  the 
everlasting  flowers  barely  pushed  up  their 
downy  heads,  yellow  above  the  blue-white 
snow.  "For  as  high  as  the  everlasting 
flowers  grow  in  summer,  so  high  will  the 
snow  be  in  winter,"  was  a  saying  among  the 
housewives  on  the  Chateaubourg  road. 

The  rapids  of  the  St.  Gabriel  fell  in  a 
tenuous  stream  between  contorted  walls  of 
ice. 

Aubin  St.  Clair  drove  his  little  traineau 
briskly  along  the  creaking  road  from 
Ancienne  Vallette  to  his  own  house,  le 
Maison  du  Roi.  It  was  the  oldest  dwelling- 
house  in  the  neighborhood,  and  had  retained 
273 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

its  name  ever  since  the  days  when  Canada 
had  beloned  to  France  and  France  had  a  king 
and  le  Capitaine  had  commanded  the  block 
house,  which,  on  account  of  its  military 
character,  was  called  by  the  simple  folk  "Le 
Maison  du  Roi. " 

Aubin  was  muffled  up  to  the  ears  in  a  bear 
skin  coat  out  of  which  his  round,  red  face, 
white-fringed,  showed  like  the  rising  harvest 
moon. 

Poleon  Gros-Louys  slouched  along  the  road 
in  a  moose-skin  coat,  much  worn.  A  rab 
bit's  bushy  tail  hung  limply  from  one  of  the 
capacious  pockets. 

"Stop,  you  beasts!"  called  Aubin,  in  a 
cheerful  growl,  to  his  dogs.  "Good-day, 
neighbor.  How  goes  it?" 

Aubin  was  one  of  the  few  French  habitans 
who  would  stop  to  exchange  civilities  with 
the  people  of  the  Huron  village. 

"So-so,"  muttered  Pole*on,  "I've  been  in 
the  bush  cutting  wood. ' ' 

"There's  a  good  bit  of  snow  on  the  moun 
tains  yet,  I  imagine,"  returned  the  other, 
"but  about  here  promises  a  big  thaw  soon." 

He  looked  at  his  dogs,  from  whose  shaggy 
sides  the  steam  was  rising.     They  snapped 
at  each  other  playfully. 
274 


AN   APRIL  MIRACLE 

"It's  up  to  one's  waist  where  the  blue 
berries  grow,"  returned  Poleon,  beginning 
to  pass  on. 

He  had  been,  for  him,  unusually  loqua 
cious. 

"But  how  are  all  your  people?"  called 
Aubin. 

"Is  Ernestine  still  at  the  Sacre  Coeur? 
What  an  amiable  young  girl  that  is !  And 
Auguste,  is  he  learning  well  to  cut  the 
moccasins?" 

Aubin's  solitary  yellow  tooth  in  his  wide- 
apart  mouth,  gave  him  a  look  of  simple 
good-heartedness  that  even  Gros-Louys 
could  not  resist. 

He  answered  Aubin's  inquiries  briefly. 

"But  Yvonne?  How  fares  she?  Do 
you  get  news  of  her  since  she  left  the  Amer 
icans  there?  Ah,  that  is  a  sad  thing,  Poison. 
Keep  up  a  brave  heart,  man.  The  good 
God  may  yet  send  her  to  you.  Look  here. ' ' 

The  old  man  reached  down  into  a  pocket 
and  brought  out  a  Quebec  paper,  a  rarity  in 
those  parts. 

' '  Ecoutez !    What  I  read  this  morning —  'A 

young  girl,  who  had  been  stolen  away  from 

her  home  in  Maine,  two  years  ago,  and  had 

not  been  heard  from  since,  has  reappeared. 

275 


THE  LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

Her  mother  had  gone  to  pray  for  her  in  the 
church,  and  had  devoted  an  offering  to  the 
Virgin  Mary.  When  she  returned  her 
daughter  stood  in  the  doorway  of  her  house. 
The  young  girl  seemed  dazed,  and  could  tell 
nothing  of  her  journey  back  to  her  home. 
It  was  without  doubt  through  the  direct 
intervention  of  the  blessed  Mary!'  ' 

Poison  listened  doggedly.  He  was  not  so 
religious  as  the  people  about  him.  The  little 
tale  did  not  send  the  thrill  through  him  that 
it  did  through  old  Aubin. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said.  "It  was  in  Maine. 
Things  may  happen  in  Maine  which  never 
come  to  Vallette. ' ' 

"Take  the  paper,"  said  Aubin,  kindly, 
thrusting  it  into  his  hand.  ' '  It  may  bring 
you  comfort.  Au  revoir — • — ' ' 

' '  Marchez  done, ' '  he  said  to  his  dogs,  who 
yelped  and  flourished  their  black  tails  with 
eagerness  to  start. 

Poison  took  the  paper  and  looked  at  it 
with  eyes  unaccustomed  to  letters.  When 
he  came  to  the  sudden  turn  by  the  chapel 
that  leads  to  the  straggling  streets  of  La 
Jeune  Vallette,  he  sat  down  in  the  sun  on 
the  steps  of  the  church. 

He  spread  the  paper  out  awkwardly  on  his 
276 


AN  APRIL  MIRACLE 

knees,  and  scanned  it.  The  printed  words 
were  like  so  many  hieroglyphics  to  him, 
but  he  would  not  have  had  old  Aubin  know 
with  how  much  difficulty  he  read.  He 
selected  one  item  and  began  to  spell  it  out 
laboriously.  He  spelled  along  as  far  as  the 
name  Yvonne. 

"Y-v-o-n-n-e,"  he  went  over  the  letters 
again,  in  great  excitement. 

"Who  knows,"  he  said,  "but  this  may  tell 
about  her?  I  will  take  it  to  the  Abbe  St. 
Clair  and  let  him  read  it  to  me." 

He  went  on  rapidly  down  the  road,  across 
the  bridge,  around  the  curve  by  the  old  saw 
mill,  and  then  with  long,  loping  strides  he 
descended  the  deep  hill  to  the  great,  gray 
stone  church  and  the  priest's  home. 

The  Abbe  St.  Clair  lived  the  life  of  a 
recluse  in  his  immaculate  house,  with  its 
trim  French  garden.  He  was  content  with 
his  secluded  parish  because  it  gave  him 
time  for  study  and  immunity  from  care. 
He  came  to  the  door  at  Poleon's  knock,  a 
finger  keeping  the  place  in  the  Latin  book 
which  he  held  in  his  hand. 

"Enter,  Poleon,"  he  said,  regarding  him 
with  the  abstracted  look  that  seldom  left  his 
eyes. 

27? 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

He  took  him  to  his  study. 

"Read  it,  please,"  said  Pole'on,  handing 
him  the  paper  and  putting  his  finger  on  the 
item. 

The  Abbe*  read: 

"Report  has  it  that  a  well-known  English 
novelist  is  writing  a  play  for  Mdlle.  Yvonne 
Yriarte.  It  deals  with  a  French-Indian 
legend  current  in  lower  Canada. ' ' 

"It  is  she,  it  is  she!"  exclaimed  Poleon, 
his  excitement  knowing  no  bounds.  "It  is 
our  Yvonne,  father.  Lower  Canada — 
French- Indian.  Now  we  shall  find  her.  I 
will  go  and  bring  her  back. ' ' 

"This  is  dated  from  Paris,"  said  the 
Abbe",  "and  Yvonne  is  an  actress." 

"What  does  she  do  then,  father?" 

"She  plays,  perhaps  dances,  in  theaters, 
for  the  amusement  of  all  the  world.  It  is  a 
dangerous  pastime. ' ' 

"Father,  how  does  one  go  to  Paris?" 

"  "Pis  a  difficult  journey,"  said  the 
Abbe",  "a  long  journey.  You  love  Yvonne, 
you  have  never  been  happy  since  she 
left." 

The  Abbe  took  off  his  spectacles,  which 
had  become  misty,  and  wiped  them  on  his 
fine  linen  handkerchief. 
278 


AN  APRIL  MIRACLE 

"I  dream  of  her  at  night,  father.  One  is 
lonely  without  her." 

"A  winsome,  black-eyed  creature,"  said 
the  Abbe,  reflectively.  "The  sisters  at  the 
Convent  du  Sacre  Coeur  spoke  highly  of  her. 
I  fear  she  has  gone  astray.  The  church 
would  gladly  help  reclaim  her  to  its  bosom. 

"I  would  go  with  you,  son,"  he  said.  "I 
have  long  thought  of  going  across  the  sea — 
Rome,  Paris.  The  Abbe"  Clement  has  seen 
them,  why  not  I?  But  it  costs  dear." 

He  spread  out  his  empty  hands  express 
ively.  "And  you?" 

"I  have  enough,  enough,"  answered 
Pole"on. 

"I  will  think  this  over,"  said  the  Abbe. 
"Who  knows  but  we  may  go  abroad 
together,  you,  my  son,  and  I?" 

His  thin,  white  fingers  closed  warmly 
about  the  large  dark  hand  of  the  Indian 
hunter. 

"God  speed  you,"  he  repeated,  "and 
grant  that  you  may  find  your  little  Yvonne." 

' '  She  is  Dew-of-the-Morning, ' '  said  Pole"on. 
"She  is  Dew-of-the-Morning,  and  when  the 
dew  dries  up,  the  flowers  hang  their  heads." 


279 


CHAPTER   VI 

ANOTHER    RENEWED    ACQUAINTANCE 

Two  men  sat  side  by  side  in  the  stalls  of  a 
London  theater.  One  was  rather  a  striking 
figure,  slender,  well-knit,  a  slight  forward 
inclination  of  the  shoulders,  as  of  one  who 
bends  much  over  a  desk,  his  hair  a  little 
silvered  at  the  temples,  a  firmly-featured 
face,  clean-shaven,  the  boyish  candor  of  the 
blue  eyes  contrasted  with  the  sad  fixity  of 
the  mouth.  The  other  man  was  of  the  pink- 
necked,  thick-chested  British  type.  His  full 
lips  and  heavy  chin  were  offset  by  a  finely- 
modeled  forehead  and  shrewd  gray-blue 
eyes. 

"If  you  run  down  to  Purple-Tops,"  said 
the  latter,  "I'll  show  you  some  of  our  cross 
country  riding.  You  ride  to  hounds  over 
there,  I  fancy?" 

His  "over  there"  had  the  polite  vagueness 
of  an  Englishman  who  has  never  visited 
America,  and  never  intends  to. 

"Not  much  in  the  middle  west,  where  I 
have  lived.  There's  a  hyphenated  fellow  or 
281 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

two  who  goes  into  it,  but  the  rest  of  us  don't 
have  time." 

Oglethorpe  was  compassionately  silent. 
He  was  feeling  for  common  ground  with 
this  Willoughby,  whose  last  book,  "The  Fate 
of  an  Ideal, ' '  had  been  so  successful  in  Eng 
land.  Oglethorpe  was  by  profession  both 
author  and  playwright,  but  he  had  a  singular 
objection  to  identifying  himself  with  the 
literary  clique.  He  was  even  somewhat 
aggressive  in  flaunting  his  other  interests 
and  shunning  altogether  "chatter  about 
Shelley." 

"If  you  go  farther  west,  though,  into  the 
Rockies,"  Willoughby  went  on,  filling  up 
the  gap  of  his  companion's  silence,  "you  will 
find  big  shooting — elks,  moose  and  bear. ' ' 

"By  George!"  exclaimed  Oglethorpe, 
regaining  interest  in  the  American,  "you 
have  a  box  out  there  and  go  often?" 

"I  worked  a  ranch  one  summer,  while  I 
was  still  in  the  university,  and  did  some 
hunting,  but  never  since.  The  hunting 
about  Chicago  is  more  exciting." 

"Really!"  exclaimed  the  Englishman. 

Then  the  play  began.  A  little  servant- 
maid  was  one  of  the  cast,  taking  rather  a 
prominent  part. 


ANOTHER  RENEWED  ACQUAINTANCE 

"Now  that's  a  clever  piece  of  acting!" 
said  Oglethorpe,  after  one  of  her  exits. 

He  was  not  looking  at  Willoughby,  and 
would  not,  in  the  obscurity,  have  noticed 
how  the  program  in  his  hand  shook. 

"Who  is  she?"  Willoughby  asked. 

"Yvonne  Yriarte.  She's  been  in  vaude 
ville  till  now.  This  is  her  first  attempt  in 
legitimate  drama.  Tom  Barry's  back  of 
her,  I  believe. ' ' 

"She's — she's  been  in  London  long?" 

"Really,  he  is  warming  up,"  thought  the 
Englishman,  rejoicing  that,  at  last,  he  had 
struck  common  ground. 

"I  don't  know.  I'll  take  you  round  to  her 
after  the  play,  if  you  like.  I  know  her  fairly 
well.  She's  a  clever  little  thing,  and  quite 
charming,  off  the  stage. ' ' 

Willoughby  was  wrapped  in  the  play 
again.  He  did  not  notice  the  acting. 
Rachel  might  have  been  on  the  boards  and 
he  would  not  have  seen  her.  The  little 
servant-maid,  with  her  adorable  accent,  he 
followed.  She  had  the  same  voice  that  had 
thrilled  through  the  Bois-des-Erables. 

They  made  their  way  to  the  green-room 
after  the  play.  She  was  standing  with  her 
back  to  him  when  he  entered  the  room.  A 
283 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

stout  woman  was  wrapping  her  up  in  her 
cloak.  Two  or  three  men  were  already 
there.  Hearing  Willoughby's  steps,  she 
turned  round.  With  a  gesture  of  delight, 
she  let  her  cloak  fall  backward  to  the  floor, 
and  running  up  to  him  she  put  her  hands  on 
his  shoulders  and  kissed  him  on  the  cheek. 

' '  My  good  friend ! ' '  she  exclaimed. 

It  was  as  simple  and  natural  as  a  child's 
action,  and  having  done  it,  she  was  no  more 
embarrassed  than  a  child.  She  looked 
round  toward  the  others. 

"He  was  my  good  friend  long  ago,"  she 
said,  "and  first  taught  me  what  life  was. 
Why  don't  you  congratulate  me,  Pierce?" 

"I  — will  — I  do "  stammered  Will- 

oughby. 

He  began  to  realize  the  situation  and  the 
cool  scrutiny  of  the  men. 

"I  must  see  you  to-morrow,  Yvonne." 

"You  are  going  to  reproach  me,  I  know," 
she  answered,  "but  I  want  much  to  see 
you." 

She  named  her  street  and  the  number. 

Pierce  went  to  his  room  for  a  night  of 

fevered    dreams.      From  the  moment  that 

Yvonne's  lips  had  touched  his  cheek  the  old 

spell  began  to  bind  itself  anew  about  his 

284 


ANOTHER  RENEWED  ACQUAINTANCE 

heart.  He  had  no  thought  of  being  un 
true  to  Helen.  He  did  not  think  of  her  at 
all. 

Willoughby  found  his  way  to  the  queer 
little  street  off  Tottenham  Court  Road.  In 
the  stuffy  sitting-room,  as  he  sat  and  waited 
for  Yvonne,  he  noticed  the  hideous  carpet 
and  threadbare  sofa. 

Yvonne  had  lost  her  airy  manner  of  the 
night  before.  He  noticed  the  shadows 
under  her  eyes  and  the  wan  look  of  her 
mouth. 

"She  has  suffered  and  fought,  and  per 
haps — not  conquered,"  he  said  to  himself. 

His  heart  went  out  to  her  in  her  defeat. 

She  answered  his  questions  gravely,  giv 
ing  him  her  history  since  she  had  left  New 
York  with  Eliza  Blodgett. 

"It  seemed  that  I  must  go  in  that  way," 
she  said.  "Madge  would  not  have  per 
mitted  it,  and  my  cousin  would  have  come 
for  me  if  he  had  known  where  I  was. ' ' 

"It  must  have  been  hard  for  you,"  said 
Pierce.  "It  was  hard  for  us. " 

She  did  not  answer.     Then : 

"I  have  been  waiting  till — till  there  was 
something  worth  telling  before  I  wrote  to 
my  friends.     I  have  not  written  yet. ' ' 
285 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

She  held  her  hands  tightly  clasped  in  her 
lap  and  looked  down. 

"Your  friends  will  be — glad — "  there  was 
intensity  in  the  commonplace  adjective — 
"glad  to  hear  from  you." 

"I  shall  write  to  them  after  the  tenth," 
said  Yvonne. 

She  looked  at  Willoughby  with  a  deep 
smile  in  her  black  eyes. 

"Something  will  have  happened  then, "  she 
went  on,  mysteriously,  "worth  the  telling." 

She  sat  there  smiling  and  silent,  the 
inward  glow  of  a  great  secret  upon  her  face. 

Willoughby  told  of  his  visit  to  Vallette, 
while  Yvonne  turned  aside  to  hide  her  tears. 

"But  now  let  me  hear  of  yourself,"  she 
said,  "and  of  all  my  friends." 

So  he  told  her  of  the  Fentons,  and  of  the 
baby  boy  who  prattled  in  their  home;  of 
sweet  Elizabeth  Dawson's  sickness  and 
death;  of  Cornelia  Livingston's  marriage. 

"And  the  Van  Eycks, "  he  began,  choosing 
the  words  in  which  to  tell  her  of  the  change 
at  Orchardhurst. 

"I  know.  It  is  so  very  sad,"  she  ex 
claimed.  "Brockton  has  told  me.  Yes,  I 
have  seen  him,  but  not  often. ' ' 

They  were  quiet  together,  for  of  Brockton 
286 


ANOTHER  RENEWED  ACQUAINTANCE 

she  could  say  no  more.  Willoughby,  from 
contempt  of  a  man  lost  to  all  sense  of  per 
sonal  and  family  honor,  kept  sternly  silent. 

"How  lonely  for  dear  Helen!" 

Yvonne's  words  came  to  him  with  a  shock. 
He  went  on  to  speak  of  Helen's  home  in  the 
west,  of  her  uncle,  of  the  Monitor.  He 
began  to  tell  of  their  engagement,  but  the 
words  were  like  knife-points  in  his  throat. 
So  he  told  of  other  things. 

"I  am  rejoiced  Helen  has  found  her 
work,"  Yvonne  said.  "Tel  bel  esprit.  And 
it  has  been  my  great  hope,  Pierce,  that  you 
and  she  might  learn  to  know  each  other. ' ' 

"We — we "  stammered  Willoughby. 

Then  the  Evil  Angel,  who  comes  at  least 
once  in  a  lifetime  between  us  and  Oppor 
tunity,  stepped  in  and  laid  her  finger  on  his 
lips. 

"We  are  very  good  friends." 

If  he  had  finished  his  sentence  as  he  had 
begun  it,  another  would  have  been  saved, 
how  much  suffering,  and  he,  how  much 
remorse ! 


287 


PART   FIVE 


THE   LADY    OF    THE    FLAG    FLOWERS 

"Je  dirais  au  roi  Henri 
J'aime  mieux  ma  mie 

Au  gue, 
J'aime  mieux  ma  mie." 

—  Vielle  Chanson. 


289 


CHAPTER  I 

BEFORE    THE    TENTH 

"What!     You,  Yvonne?" 

"Assuredly." 

"I  thought  so.     You're  not  in  haste?" 

"I  am,  Brockton." 

"It's  a  sin.  Haste  makes  waste.  Sit 
down  here  a  bit  in  the  square.  I  have  the 
key  in  my  pocket.  It's  very  necessary  that 
I  should  talk  with  you. ' ' 

' '  But  impossible.     I  must  get  home. ' ' 

"May  I  walk  with  you,  then?  Let  me 
carry  the  fish." 

"How  did  you  know?" 

"Some  men  are  born  to  knowledge,  and 
others  have  it  thrust  upon  them.  Let  me 
take  them." 

"What  gallantry!  I  can't  fancy  you 
carrying  a  brown  paper  parcel." 

"It  shan't  be  a  matter  of  fancy,  but  fact." 

"There,  if  you  will.  But  don't  keep  me 
standing  here,  with  that  goggle-eyed  man 
staring  at  us.  Let  us  sit  down. ' ' 

"As  I  suggested  at  the  start." 
291 


THE   LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

"Well,  Brockton,  what  do  you  want?" 

"You." 

"Same  old " 

' '  Don't  revile  yourself,  Yvonne. ' ' 

"Seriously,  Brockton,  I  must  say  what  I've 
said  before.  You're  really  quite  decent  this 
morning,  and  I  wish  you  to  understand  me. 
I  shall  never  give  you  the  answer  you  want. " 

"Why?" 

"Because — it  doesn't  sound  pretty  to  say  it 
— because  I  don't  want  you." 

"If  you  smile  at  me  like  that  I  shall  go 
crazy. ' ' 

"I'll  look  like  this,  then,  if  you  prefer. " 

"No,  never.  I  didn't  mean  what  I  said. 
You  have  frowned  on  me  so  much  lately,  you 
know,  that  it  quite  upset  me  to  have  you 
smile. ' ' 

"Well?" 

"What  was  I  saying?  See  how  strange 
that  man  looks  there,  laughing  at  us  through 
the  trees!" 

"Where?" 

' '  There,  deuce  take  it — I  beg  your  pardon. ' ' 

"I  see  nothing,  Brockton." 

"Neither  do  I,  now.  It  was  a  streak 
across  my  eyes.  Yvonne. ' ' 

"Yes." 

292 


BEFORE   THE   TENTH 

"  You  're  having  the  deuce  of  a  time, 
you  know  you  are.  Why  won't  you  let  me 
help  you?  Carrying  home  dried  herring  like 
any  lodging-house  slavey. ' ' 

"I'm  thankful  to  have  dried  herring  to 
carry. ' ' 

"If  you'll  only  have  me,  you  may  buy  a 
whole  herring-fishery.  I've  money  to  burn, 
and  I'm  going  to  the  dogs  with  it  as  fast  as 
I  can — without  you." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  go  there,  even  with 
you,  Brockton." 

"Yvonne !  I  could  be  a  man,  if  you  would 
help  me. ' ' 

"Brockton,  be  a  man  first!  Take  hold  of 
yourself. ' ' 

"I'm  not  on  speaking  terms  with  myself. 
We're  continually  at  odds.  But  if  you  were 
interested,  it  would  be  all  different.  Think 
of  what  we  could  do,  where  we  could  go.  Are 
you  happy,  Yvonne?" 

"No,  not  now.     But  It  is  coming." 

"What  is  coming?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  what.  A  piece  of  good 
news.  Then  I  shall  be  happier.  Then  I 
shall  be  satisfied  to  return." 

"Where,  pray?" 

"To  my  people." 

293 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

"Must  it  be  a  secret,  this  piece  of  good 
news?" 

"From  you." 

"Alone?" 

"No." 

"It  concerns  besides  yourself  a — a — man?" 

"Perhaps,  but  it's  not — not " 

"It  isn't?" 

"No." 

"Not  so  bad  a  piece  of  good  news  as  I 
feared.  Will  you  ever  tell  me?" 

"After  the  tenth,  if  I  see  you." 

"I  will  see  you — after  the  tenth,  then.  I 
shall  remember.  Ah,  don't  go — Yvonne, 
won't  you  have  me?  You  would  have  taken 
me  once,  wouldn't  you?  That  time,  you 
remember?" 

"I  remember." 

"Would  you?" 

' '  Maybe.     But  now ' ' 

"Bloomin"  fool  that  I  was!" 

"Brockton,  don't  look  at  me  so  wildly. 
What  do  you  see?" 

"Nothing.  I  did  see — something.  It's 
gone  now,  flown  away.  What  were  we 
talking  of  ?  Oh,  you. " 

"Brockton,  I  am  sorry.  I  am  very 
sorry." 

294 


"You  can't  be  half  sorry  enough  for  a  poor 
devil  like  me.  If  you  only  knew ' ' 

' '  If  you  only  knew.  We  have  each  of  us 
our  trouble.  We  must  fight  it  out  alone. 
And  the  Great  God  understands." 

"There  is  no  hope  for  me?" 

"Good-bye." 

"You  mean  it?" 

"Yes,  good-bye." 

"By  George,  then,  I  was  bad  enough 
before,  but  I'll  be  worse  now.  There's 
nothing  left  to  live  for.  What  rot  it  all  is ! " 

He  dug  his  stick  into  the  ground  with 
an  ugly  oath,  and  watched  Yvonne's  little 
figure,  as  she  walked  away  down  the  street, 
carrying  her  brown  paper  parcel. 


295 


CHAPTER   II 

JANGLING    VOICES 

He  sat  alone  in  his  chamber,  and  heard 
jangling  voices. 

"You  are  doing  no  wrong  to  visit  her," 
cried  One.  "You  are  interested  in  her  wel 
fare.  She  needs  your  friendship." 

"You  are  more  than  interested,"  said  the 
Other.  "You  should  leave  London  and  not 
see  her  again. ' ' 

"That  would  be  an  admission  of  cow 
ardice,"  said  the  One.  "Stay  and  follow 
your  own  innocent  fancy.  The  time  will 
come  soon  enough  when  duty  will  command 
you.  You  are  sick.  You  need  the  relaxation. " 

"Nothing  can  require  a  moral  relaxation, " 
said  the  Other.  "The  more  you  give  way 
to  it  the  stronger  this  passion  will  become. 
You  know  it  is  not  a  true,  right  love.  You 
are  bound  to  another.  Think  of  her. ' ' 

"She  is  far  away.  She  will  never  know. 
And  if  she  should  know,  she  would  not  be 
troubled.  Yvonne  is  her  friend,  too." 

"What  are  you  wasting  your  time  and 
297 


THE  LADY   OF   THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

your  heart-beats  for?  Nothing.  She  cares 
no  more  for  you  than  for  the  fellow-actors 
with  whom  she  plays  at  love  and  hate. 
When  all  is  said  and  done,  what  have  you? 
Indifference  here,  contempt  there  and 
remorse  in  your  own  heart. ' ' 

Daily  Sin  and  Conscience  fought  this 
battle,  and  the  man  within  whom  Sin  and 
Conscience  do  daily  battle  becomes  worn 
with  eternal  hearing  of  their  jangling  voices. 

"End  it  all  and  write  to  Helen,"  said  the 
Other. 

Willoughby  took  up  his  pen. 

"My  dearest,"  it  wrote. 

"What  beautiful  sincerity!"  sneered  the 
One. 

Willoughby  threw  down  his  pen.  ' '  I  can 
not  write  to  her, ' '  he  savagely  said. 

"To  write  to  her  as  I  have  been  doing  is 
falsehood. ' ' 

"Ah,  then  you  know  you  are  false,"  the 
jangling  voices  began  again. 

"  Admit  it, "  quickly  interrupted  the  One. 
"Many  men  have  been  so.  You  might  be 
much  worse  than  to  be  false. 

"But  why  need  it  be  false?  You  have 
simply  found  your  mistake.  Better  now 
than  afterwards.  More  merciful  for  both 
298 


JANGLING    VOICES 

you  and  Helen.  Win  Yvonne.  Helen 
would  not  wish  the  semblance  of  your  love 
without  the  reality.  You  are  only  just  to 
her  in  following  your  own  heart." 

' '  False,  false,  false ! ' '  And  so  the  jangling 
voices  went  on. 

Far  away  in  a  western  city  Helen  Van 
Eyck  sat  before  her  desk. 

"It  is  two  weeks  that  I  have  not  heard 
from  him, ' '  she  was  saying  to  herself. 

Yvonne's  letter  lay  before  her  on  her 
desk.  The  thought  of  her  own  unanswered 
one  to  Pierce  lay  heavy  on  her  heart.  For 
the  twentieth  time  that  day  she  took  the 
calendar  in  her  hand  and  counted  off  the 
days  since  her  letter  had  been  posted.  For 
the  twentieth  time  that  day  she  came  to  the 
same  conclusion.  His  copy  came  to  the 
office  with  unfailing  regularity.  And  he 
had  seen  Yvonne ! 

Her  love  and  her  pride  fought  with  each 
other.  Her  nature  was  the  kind  that  can 
not  endure  uncertainties.  It  must  have 
finality.  Stronger  than  most  women  in 
bearing  the  irrevocable,  she  was  weaker  than 
many  in  enduring  suspense.  She  loved 
Willoughby,  but  her  strong  will  made  her 
heart  renounce  its  hope.  She  still  believed 
299 


THE  LADY  OF   THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

in  him  too  much  not  to  love  him.  She  still 
loved  him  too  much  to  be  bitter.  But  she 
determined  to  write  a  letter  to  him  which 
should  release  him  from  his  engagement. 

There  could  be  but  one  reason  for  his 
silence.  He  had  met  Yvonne.  His  love 
for  her  had  returned.  Doubtful  how  to 
unravel  the  complication,  honesty  keeps  him 
silent  both  to  her  and  Yvonne.  Helen  did 
not  blame  him  at  all ;  rather  herself  that  she 
had  accepted  him,  knowing  his  past  love  for 
Yvonne. 

This  was  the  letter  she  wrote : 

"My  Dear  Pierce: 

"In  our  absence  from  each  other  of  the 
last  few  months,  we  have  perhaps  learned 
to  know  our  own  hearts  better. 

"I  sometimes  think  that  a  lifelong  union 
needs  a  lifelong  preparation.  However  that 
may  be,  I  have  decided  that  our  engagement 
was  a  mistake.  Much  as  I  honor  you  and 
esteem  you " 

Helen  set  her  teeth  as  she  wrote  this,  and 
after  she  had  written  it  she  laid  her  head 
down  upon  the  table  and  sobbed. 

" 1  cannot  marry  you.     It  is  foolish  to 

ask  or  to  offer  reasons  for  a  decision  like 

this.     The  decision  alone  is  reason  enough. 

I  know    that  you    are  both    generous  and 

300 


JANGLING  VOICES 

wise,  and  will  ask  neither  for  explanation 
nor  change.     There  can  be  none  of  either. 
"But  I  shall  remain  always, 
"Your  friend, 

"Helen  Van  Eyck." 

She  read  the  letter  over  with  dry,  burning 
eyes. 

"When  he  has  this,"  she  said,  "he  will  not 
blame  himself  any  more.  Of  course  I  could 
not  pretend  that  I  still  thought  he  loved  me. 
But  he  will  think  that  the  misunderstanding 
and  mistake  have  been  mutual — and  he  will 
be  happy. ' ' 

Then:  "Oh,  Pierce,  Pierce!"  she  moaned. 

Perhaps  the  thought  came  to  her,  as  it  will 
again  and  again  to  loving  women,  that  her 
recreant  lover  might,  after  all,  return 

After  a  while  she  lifted  her  head  from  her 
desk  and  wrote  another  letter,  different  from 
the  previous  one.  But  when  she  had  com 
pleted  it,  she  tore  it  up  and  sent  the  first. 

Then  she  took  from  her  drawer  a  packet  of 
Willoughby's  letters.  Very  dear  they  had 
been  to  her.  Every  page  and  every  line 
had  brought  joy. 

Her  lips  twitched. 

"I  mustn't  have  these  things  lying 
around, ' '  she  said. 

301 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG  -  FLOWERS 

She  crumpled  them,  one  by  one,  in  her 
hands,  and  threw  them  into  the  empty  grate. 
She  wondered  at  herself  for  the  trouble  she 
was  taking. 

"Quite  as  if  I  were  building  a  fire,"  she 
said  ironically,  as  she  touched  the  match. 

The  papers  writhed  and  curled  as  the 
flames  crept  round  them.  They  huddled 
together  or  recoiled  as  the  light  gusts  from 
the  chimney  chased  them.  They  seemed  to 
be  shuddering  at  their  own  fate.  One  par 
ticular  sheet  Helen  watched.  It  had  a  will 
of  its  own  and  fought  the  enemy  heroically. 
Slowly  they  encroached  upon  its  fairness. 
They  licked  away  with  their  red  tongues  the 
written  lines  that  picketed  its  territory. 
Now  the  heap  of  papers  below  it  fell  into 
charred,  glossy  scraps.  On  the  blackened 
leaf  that  Helen  watched  one  patch  of  white 
ness  remained.  Leaning  over,  she  could 
read  the  words:  "I  am  eagerly  waiting — " 
She  put  out  her  hand  to  rescue  it,  but  a 
little  leaping  scorpion  frustrated  her  purpose. 
There  was  nothing  else  left  to  satisfy  the 
fire.  Fire  and  letter  perished  together. 
The  black  ashes  quivered  in  the  grate. 

"In  a  moment  they  will  be  as  quiet  as  I," 
said  Helen. 

302 


CHAPTER  III 

WILLOUGHBY    MAKES    A    PROMISE 

Willoughby  stood  by  the  fireplace,  finger 
ing  a  china  dog  with  a  blase"  expression  that 
stood  on  the  mantel.  It  wore  a  cynical  smile 
about  its  flat,  painted  lips.  Yvonne  sat  at 
the  center-table,  her  elbows  resting  on  the 
olive-green  felt  cover.  She  looked  up  at 
Willoughby. 

"You  have  been  so  kind,  so  very  kind  to 
me,"  she  said,  pensively. 

"I  have  not  been  kind.  I  should  have 
been  glad  if  I  could  have  done  more,  much 
more." 

Willoughby  was  restraining  himself  with 
difficulty.  He  had  purposely  put  the  center- 
table  between  himself  and  Yvonne. 

"And  now  you  are  come  to  say  good-bye, 
and  it  may  be  another  long  space  of  years 
before  I  see  you  again,"  said  Yvonne,  with 
a  quiver  of  the  lip. 

Willoughby  looked  away  from  her  to  the 
china  dog,  which  leered  at  him  unpleasantly. 
All  the  protective  instinct  in  him  was  stirred 
303 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

by  Yvonne's  homesick  sadness.  If  he  had 
found  her  a  successful  actress,  encompassed 
by  the  graces  of  life,  he  would  have  had  less 
temptation.  But,  in  the  sordid  parlor, 
alone,  unbefriended,  Yvonne,  with  the 
quivering  lip  and  the  wistful  gaze!  It 
was  more  than  his  human  nature  could 
resist. 

Yvonne  had  dropped  her  head  down 
between  her  arms.  A  flood  of  memories 
came  to  her  of  the  time  when  Willoughby 
had  first  known  her  and  before — yes,  long 
before  that,  when  she  was  little  and  had  sat 
with  Poleon  at  the  foot  of  the  great  pine- 
tree.  With  her  face  hidden  from  him  on  the 
table,  she  was  crying.  And  Willoughby 
stood  above  her.  His  hands  hovered  over 
her  head. 

"My  little  girl,"  he  said. 

His  voice  was  a  caress. 

Perhaps  Yvonne  did  not  hear  him.  She 
looked  up  with  a  smile.  The  tears  still 
stood  in  her  eyes. 

"I  do  not  want  you  to  go  yet.  You  are 
leaving  before  my  great  day.  You  are  leav 
ing  before  the  tenth. ' ' 

"And  what  is  to  happen  on  the  tenth?" 

"The  crown  of  all  things,  the  flower  of 
304 


WILLOUGHBY  MAKES  A  PROMISE 

life.  It  is  my  Great  Day.  You  will  wait 
till  then,  Pierce?" 

Willoughby  could  not  but  smile  back  at 
ner.  She  was  so  like  a  happy  child,  whose 
soul  swells  with  a  secret. 

"You  want  me  to  stay  very  much,  very 
much  indeed?"  He  felt  the  ground  give 
beneath  his  feet.  He  had  been  so  sure  of 
himself  when  he  had  turned  off  Tottenham 
Court  Road,  and  now,  where  was  he? 

"Ah,  yes,  very  much  indeed.  You  will 
promise  me?" 

Willoughby  was  standing  by  the  mantel 
piece  again,  and  the  hand  which  toyed  with 
the  china  dog  trembled.  The  china  dog's 
long,  painted  lips  were  insolently  knowing 
when  Willoughby  answered: 

"Yes,  Yvonne.     I  will — promise." 

Eliza  Blodgett,  entering  at  that  moment, 
startled  Willoughby.  The  china  dog  fell 
from  his  hand  and  crashed  on  the  tiles  of  the 
narrow  hearth. 

"I  a 'most  feel  like  as  if  I  'ad  lost  a  blood- 
relation,  ' '  said  Eliza,  brushing  up  the  pieces 
after  Willoughby  had  gone  out.  "The 
gentleman  said  'ow  'e'd  bring^meh 'another, 
but  h' another  couldn't  fill  the  place  of  Splop. 
'E  was  named  h' after  Splop,  my  sister's 
305 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

bull-terrier;  'e  was  a  fat  and  lazy  critter, 
but  'ad  that  wise  look  about  'is  eyes  an' 
mouth  as  was  remarkable." 

Richard  Oglethorpe,  Tom  Barry  and 
Pierce  Willoughby  were  dining  together  at 
the  Club. 

"To-morrow  is  Yvonne's  Great  Day," 
said  Barry,  smiling  at  Oglethorpe. 

Willoughby  started.  In  fact,  his  nerves 
had  been  very  shaky,  of  late.  He  did  not 
look  like  a  man  who  was  enjoying  a  well- 
earned  vacation.  His  face  was  thinner  than 
when  he  had  come  to  London,  and  his  eyes 
were  no  longer  fearless. 

"It's  out  in  the  evening  papers  by  this 
time,  so  we  were  to  tell  you  at  dinner,"  said 
Barry  to  Willoughby. 

Then  Oglethorpe  went  on  to  explain  that 
he  had  been  writing  a  play  for  Miss 
Brusseau.  It  was  the  dramatization  of  an 
old  Algonquin  legend  that  had  been  pre 
served  by  the  French  habitans  in  remote  dis 
tricts  of  Lower  Canada. 

"They  believe  in  a  sort  of  witch  who 
haunts  their  streams.  They  call  her  La 
Jongleuse,  or  the  Lady  of  the  Flag- Flowers. 
The  heroine  of  the  drama  is  a  girl  who  plays 
the  witch  at  times  and  finally,  in  this  guise, 
306 


WILLOUGHBY  MAKES  A   PROMISE 

frightens  away  her  peasant-lover.  A  French 
officer  comes  adventuring  about,  and  she 
runs  off  with  him.  She  is  afterward  visited 
by  Nemesis  in  the  shape  of  the  real  Jon- 
gleuse,  who  appears  to  her,  and  she  falls 
dead. 

"I  do  not  know  what  the  critics  will  say 
to  the  supernatural  element  I  have  worked 
in,  but  the  scenic  effect  will  be  great.  It's 
rather  an  emotional  piece,  but  I  think  Miss 
Brusseau  capital  for  that  eerie  will-o'-the- 
wispish  sort  of  thing,  don't  you?" 

"Perhaps.  I  hope  so,"  Barry  returned, 
doubtfully.  "She  will  succeed  there  if  it's 
in  her  to  succeed  at  all.  You  see,  Mr. 
Willoughby,  this  has  been  written  expressly 
for  her,  and  gives  an  opportunity  for  all  that 
fine,  delicate,  sprightly  sort  of  work  in 
which  she's  at  her  best.  Folk-songs,  dances, 
and  all  that.  You  know,  Oglethorpe,  I 
really  think  the  girl  has  great  talent  if  she 
can  only  work  it  out.  She  has  never  once 
seemed  fairly  pulled  off. ' ' 

"This  setting  takes  her  back,  then,  to  a 
familiar  atmosphere,  and  you  think  she  will 
find  herself  there?"  queried  Willoughby. 

"Quite  so,"  answered  the  actor.  "lam 
immensely  interested  in  the  outcome.  I'm 
307 


THE  LADY   OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

sorry  she's  not  backed  by  a  better  company, 
and  hasn't  a  more  progressive  management. 
But  genius  will  ovecome  a  great  deal.  I've 
done  the  best  I  could  for  her.  And  really, 
it's  her  final  venture.  Her  whole  career, 
you  might  say,  is  at  stake. ' ' 

Poor  little  Yvonne!  So  this  was  her 
Great  Day !  She  herself  could  not  have  been 
more  harassed  by  excitement  than  Will- 
oughby  was,  over  the  coming  crisis. 

"It's  been  a  fancy  of  hers  to  keep  it  out  of 
the  papers  and  from  every  one  but  those 
immediately  concerned,"  Barry  went  on. 
"That's  why  it  wasn't  announced  before." 

"Isn't  that  rather  too  bad?"  questioned 
Willoughby.  "Doesn't  the  advertising  go 
a  great  way?" 

"I  think  it  doesn't  matter,"  replied  Barry. 
"If  it's  a  fiasco,  the  less  said  the  better.  If 
not,  we  will  put  some  red-hot  stuff,  as  you 
Americans  say,  into  the  papers,  and  make 
it  go." 

"What  do  you  call  the  play?"  asked 
Willoughby  of  Oglethorpe. 

"The    Lady    of     the     Flag-Flowers.       I 

rather    think    the    French    has    a    weirder 

sound,  don't  you  —  la  Dame  aux  Glaieuls? 

By  the  way,  Barry,   how  did  the  last  re- 

308 


WILLOUGHBY  MAKES  A  PROMISE 

hearsal  come  off?  I  was  sorry  I  couldn't  be 
there." 

Barry  hesitated. 

"Like  fireworks,"  he  said.  "Intermit 
tently,  splashes  of  light  and  then  darkness. 
A  rocket-streak  and  then  a  stick." 

Willoughby  was  invited  to  join  the  Barrys 
and  Oglethorpe  in  their  box  for  the  opening 
night. 

"She  has  been  keeping  it  a  secret  espe 
cially  from  you,"  said  Barry.  "You  know 
something,  I  believe,  of  the  original  set 
ting." 


309 


CHAPTER   IV 

YVONNE'S  GREAT  DAY 

The  hours  dragged  themselves  along,  the 
next  day,  till  evening  came. 

Tom  Barry,  Mrs.  Barry,  a  stately  lady,  an 
actress  of  the  old  school,  and  Willoughby, 
stopped  with  their  four-wheeler  at  Eliza 
Blodgett's  for  Yvonne. 

"It's  h'all  in  your  mind,"  said  Eliza  to 
Yvonne,  as  she  put  a  cloak  around  her,  "it's 
h'all  in  your  mind,  w'ether  you  wins  the 
game  or  not.  It's  the  plucky  'eart  that 
comes  in  the  winning  mare,  as  Currant,  'e 
says." 

"Think  what  it  means,  Eliza  dear," 
Yvonne's  soft  voice  was  thick  with  excite 
ment,  "if  the  people  like  me  to-night." 

"It's  money  in  your  pocket,  p'unds  and 
shillin's,  that's  w'at  it  is." 

"It's  more  than  that.  It's  my  soul  in 
heaven,"  Yvonne  answered,  huskily. 

The  four  people  drove  along  in  silence  for 
some  time.  Yvonne  was  first  to  break  the 
silence. 

311 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

"My  friends,"  she  said,  "they  all  come 
back  to  me  to-night,  those  twilight  places; 
the  pointed  firs,  the  white  mist  creeping 
over  the  water,  the  white-moss  swamp  where 
I  used  to  dread  her — La  Jongleuse. " 

She  shivered  slightly.  They  wondered  at 
her  mood,  whether  it  were  part  of  her  acting 
or  not.  As  the  carriage  rattled  across  the 
brilliance  of  Oxford  Street  and  down  the 
narrow  darkness  of  Drury  Lane,  she  put  her 
hand  over  into  Mrs.  Barry's. 

"I  feel  afraid,"  she  said.  "I  can  see  Her 
now.  She  has  such  cold  eyes.  Her  hair  is 
so  long.  She  steps  so  softly  in  the  dark 
ness  ! ' ' 

Willoughby,  far  withdrawn  into  himself, 
heard  her  words  as  if  they  came  from  an 
unknown  country.  He  was  trembling,  too. 
Vague  memories  and  regrets  and  the 
Shadow  of  Remorse,  clustered  round  him. 

They  stepped  out  into  the  glare  of  light 
before  The  Druid. 

Willoughby  was  at  the  keenest  pitch  of 
excitement.  He  could  hardly  wait  for  the 
curtain  to  roll  up.  When  it  did,  it  disclosed 
an  English  scene-painter's  notion  of  Canada. 
It  was  rather  German  than  otherwise,  with  a 
rushing  stream  in  the  background  and  pine- 
312 


YVONNE'S   GREAT   DAY 

clad  hills  against  the  sky — very  blue  and 
curly  as  to  stream,  and  very  green  and 
peaky  as  to  hills.  A  Swiss  chalet  at 
the  right  stood  for  a  habitan's  cottage. 
Tinkle  of  cow-bells  is  heard,  and  Anaide's 
father  and  mother  appear,  engaged  in  the 
conventionar"gesticulatory  peasant  couple's 
conversation."^  Well  and  good  so  far.  There 
is  a  ripple  of  laughter  from  the  lane  toward 
the  left.  Anaide  rushes  in,  still  laughing. 
It  is  Yvonne.  She  wears  the  red  knit 
bodice  and  the  dark  blue  skirt  of  the  Bois- 
des-Erables.  Willoughby  catches  his  breath 
and  looks.  Yes,  it  is  the  same.  Her  black 
hair  hangs  in  two  braids.  In  one  hand  she 
swings  a  queer,  ruffled  white  hat.  She  still 
laughs.  She  tries  to  explain  to  her  parents. 
She  cannot  for  laughter. 

Then  the  audience  breaks  into  laughter 
and  applause.  Yvonne  has  scored  her  first 
hit.  Willoughby  was  the  only  one  in  the 
house  who  had  not  laughed. 

In  comes  Jean,  the  peasant  lover.  His 
red  woolen  cap  is  comically  awry.  His  eyes 
are  big  with  fright.  The  scene  goes  on. 
Anaide  is  here,  there  and  everywhere.  She 
is  a  sprite,  an  Undine.  The  audience  are 
delighted. 

313 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

The  old  folks  have  gone  in  now.  Anaide 
seizes  clumsy  Jean  by  the  wrist  and  induces 
him  to  try  a  little  sauterie. 

Then  she  sings.  It  is  the  "Sautez, 
mignonne,  Cecilia,"  the  little  chanson  that 
first  charmed  Barry  in  the  Park. 

"Ma  mignonette,  embrassez-moi. 
Nenni,  Monsieur,  je  n'oserais " 


Yvonne's  voice  lilted  upward  like  a 
meadow-lark's.  The  freshness  of  it,  the 
naivete,  her  fawn-like  timidity,  were  like  a 
glimpse  of  the  Golden  Age  to  the  world- 
weary  men  and  women  who  saw  her.  For 
once,  Yvonne  had  found  herself  in  her  art. 

"Nenni,  Monsieur,  je  n'oserais, 
Car  si  papan  le  savait, 

Sautez,  mignonne,  Cecilia — 
Ah,  ah,  Cecilia." 

The  quality  of  youth  in  her  voice  was 
irresistible.  The  pathos  of  her  innocence 
misted  the  eyes  of  many  a  hardened  theater 
goer. 

"Les  oiseaux  des  bois,  parlent-ils? 
Us  parl'nt  francais,  latin  aussi." 

What  a  dear,  trustful  child  it  is ! 


YVONNE'S  GREAT   DAY 

"Us  parl'nt  franc,  ais,  latin  aussi. 
Helas !  que  le  monde  est  malin. 
D'apprendre  aux  oiseaux  le  latin." 

Even  Willoughby  forgot  for  the  moment 
the  botched-up  setting.  Hill  and  stream 
were  bathed  in  reality.  It  seemed  the 
morning  mists  were  on  them.  The  Nor 
mandy  song,  with  its  quaint  patois,  the 
vivid  grace  of  the  little  peasant  girl,  were  a 
revelation  to  the  spectators.  The  curtain 
went  down  on  an  enraptured  audience. 

Barry  and  Oglethorpe  were  shaking  hands 
with  each  other  and  exchanging  congratula 
tions. 

"She's  a  shower  of  sparks  to-night," 
exclaimed  Barry,  beaming  on  Oglethorpe. 
"In  perfect  form!  No  one  could  have  taken 
it  better." 

"I  didn't  know  myself  I'd  done  so  good 
a  piece  of  work,"  exclaimed  Oglethorpe, 
beaming  on  Barry. 

"You  humbug!"  Barry  returned,  genially. 

The  party  were  finding  their  way  to  the 
green-room  to  applaud  the  little  actress  in 
person. 

"There  is  only  one  thing  to  make  it  com 
plete,"  whispered  Yvonne  to  Willoughby. 
315 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

"I  wish  my  cousin  Poison  could  see  me 
to-night." 

Willoughby,  as  he  went  out,  thought  he 
recognized  a  familiar  face  by  the  door,  a 
man  to  whom  the  attendants  were  denying 
admittance.  He  seemed  to  be  somewhat  the 
worse  for  liquor,  and  was  laboring  under 
great  excitement.  When  he  took  his  seat  in 
the  box  again  Pierce  recalled  the  face  as 
that  of  Brockton  Van  Eyck. 

The  play  went  on.  Anaide  is  the  lady 
now,  the  darling  of  a  French  chevalier.  She 
has  been  taken  to  France,  and  little  dream 
ing  that  she  is  mistress  and  not  wife,  delights 
her  lover  in  the  seclusion  of  a  hidden  bower. 
The  chateau-hall  on  the  stage  was  harmoni 
ously  set  out.  Flaring  logs  in  the  deep  fire 
place  touch  with  red  the  carved  figures  on 
the  high-backed  oaken  settle,  and  gleam  on 
the  crossed  swords  above  the  prie-dieu 
chair.  Candle-flames,  like  white  tapering 
flowers,  in  their  brazen  sconces,  fleck  the 
darkness  of  tapestried  walls.  A  great 
golden  harp  is  dimly  lustrous  against  one 
corner.  The  polished  floor  reflects  the 
various  lights  like  black  ice  on  a  starry  even 
ing.  Now  the  master  of  the  house  enters, 
debonair  and  courtly,  his  glossy  curls  falling 
316 


YVONNE'S   GREAT   DAY 

over  the  careless  grace  of  a  crimson  mantle. 
He  seats  himself  in  his  high,  carven  chair. 
His  greyhound  is  at  his  feet,  slender  head 
between  outstretched  paws  and  watchful 
eyes  on  the  crackling  logs.  The  Count  lays 
his  plumed  hat  on  the  ebony  table,  beside 
the  silver  loving-cup  with  convolute  han 
dles.  His  white  hands  on  his  velvet  lap  are 
delicate  as  cameos.  He  looks  toward  the 
stairway,  waiting  for  the  lady  Anaide.  Her 
voice  floats  ahead  of  her  in  a  fairy  gossamer 
of  song : 

"Quand  j'  etais  chez  mon  pere, 
Gai,  vive  le  roi. " 

Slowly  she  comes  down  the  sweeping 
curve  of  the  chateau-stair.  Like  one  to  the 
manorborn  she  walks.  The  trail  of  her 
skirts  is  epic.  The  poise  of  her  head  is 
poetry.  Her  bare,  slender  shoulders  curve 
like  a  lily  out  of  the  leafy  greenness  of  her 
shining  gown. 

"Superb!"  murmured  Oglethorpe.  "One 
would  think  there  were  centuries  behind 
her." 

"Wait  till  La  Jongleuse  appears,"  Barry 
whispered,  forgetting  his  doubts  of  the  day 
before.     "That  will  be  a  creation." 
31? 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

Willoughby  was  not  in  the  box,  nor  was 
he  on  earth.  Somewhere  in  space  he  floated 
on  a  new  planet. 

"Quand  j'etais  chez  mon  pere, 
Gai,  vive  le  roi, ' ' 

sings  Anaide,  descending. 

The  Count  has  sprung  forward  to  greet 
her,  when  he  is  stopped  by  a  sudden  com 
motion  at  the  outer  door.  It  is  thrown  open 
by  a  messenger,  booted  and  spurred. 

"Madame  the  Countess,"  he  announces. 

Tall,  imperious,  the  forgotten  wife 
enters.  Her  blue  eyes  glance  keenly  about 
the  hall,  from  her  husband  in  his  transfixed 
attitude,  to  the  flower-like  figure  beside  the 
baluster. 

Yvonne  pauses  one  perfect  moment  on  the 
last  tread  of  the  stately  stair,  the  song 
hushed  on  her  lips,  a  gazelle's  question  in 
her  black  eyes.  No  one  has  yet  spoken  a 
word.  It  is  so  still  in  the  house  one  might 
hear  a  ribbon  fall,  when  a  man's  voice  from 
the  twilight  of  the  pit  cries  out : 

"Mon  Dieu,  c'est  ma  petite  Yvonne." 

The  sharp  report  of  a  pistol  follows. 
Yvonne  flings  out  one  arm  and  has  fallen  on 
the  polished  floor.  The  candle,  from  its 
318 


YVONNE'S   GREAT  DAY 

sconce,  falls  too,  struck  by  her  out-flung- 
hand.  The  green  shimmer  of  her  twisted 
skirts  is  like  April  sunshine  on  the  black 
floor. 

It  was  all  so  quick  and  so  silent  that  people 
hardly  knew  what  it  meant  till  they  saw  the 
curtain  drop.  Then  they  realized  that  an 
accident  had  happened. 


319 


CHAPTER  V 

HELEN'S  LETTER 

"Did  I  dream  that  I  heard  my  cousin's 
voice?" 

The  question  seemed  to  cost  her  an  effort. 

' '  Poor  Poison !  My  brave  cousin !  If  he 
had  come  these  many,  many  miles  to  look 
for  me!  But  I  was  going  to  him,  was  I  not? 
Did  I  not  tell  you,  Eliza,  that  if  my  Great 
Day  was  good  to  me,  then,  after  a  while,  I 
could  go  to  Poison?  For  it  takes  much 
money  to  go  so  far,  so  very  far,  and  one  must 
carry  remembrances  back  to  one's  family." 

Yvonne  looked  pitifully  child-like  as  she 
lay  there  on  the  pillow. 

"Dear  Yvonne,"  said  Pierce,  "you  will  be 
strong  again  and  may  return  to  Vallette,  if 
you  wish  it.  We  will  take  you  there. ' ' 

"I  was  doing  well,  was'  I  not?  I  knew  I 
was  doing  well.  I  was  happy.  My  Great 
Day  had  come,  but  I  had  not  yet  shown 
them  all  I  could  do.  And  then,  and  then — 
this.  Why  should  one  have  wished  to  hurt 
me?" 

321 


THE   LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

1 '  He  was,  I  think,  not  in  his  right  mind, ' ' 
Willoughby  answered,  slowly.  "He  did  not, 
himself,  know  what  he  did. ' ' 

He  mercifully  kept  from  her  the  name  of 
the  man  who  had  been  arrested. 

"If  I  were  a  saint  this  would  be  called  a 
trial,  would  it  not?"  said  Yvonne.  "When 
I  was  little,  at  the  Convent,  Sister  Angeline 
taught  me  about  the  trials  of  the  blessed 
saints.  They  were  so  very  difficult  to 
understand.  You  do  not  know,  Pierce,  do 
you,  how  difficult  it  is  to  understand?  Last 
night  I  was  just  beginning  to  understand, 
and  now — it  is  all  dark  again." 

"It's  trying  to  the  h'eyes  to  'av  much  light 
when  you  lays  in  bed  that  way, ' '  said  Eliza. 
"I  kep'  it  shaded  in  here  a-purpose. " 

Richard  Oglethorpe  came  in  that  morning 
to  inquire  after  Yvonne.  He  brought  Will 
oughby 's  mail  from  the  Club.  The  top 
letter  on  the  pile,  as  Willoughby  laid  them 
on  the  table,  was  Helen's.  Yvonne's  face 
brightened. 

"It  is  from  Helen,  Pierce.  I  know  her 
writing. ' ' 

Willoughby's  heart  smote  him,  but  he 
made  no  answer. 

"And  Helen  writes  to  you,  and  has  not 
322 


HELEN'S   LETTER 

answered  my  letter  at  all.  Read  it,  Pierce. 
Perhaps  she  sends  some  message  to  me. ' ' 

"Not  now,  Yvonne." 

"Yes,  yes,  now,"  insisted  she,  with  the 
privileged  petulance  of  the  sick. 

Then  she  noticed  Willoughby's  face. 

"There  is  something  you  are  keeping 
from  me, ' '  she  exclaimed,  weakly,  but  with 
that  dramatic  intonation  so  natural  to  her, 
"something  I  ought  to  know." 

Willoughby  opened  his  letter  and  read  it. 
He  read  it  again.  He  scarcely  grasped  its 
meaning.  Released!  Helen  released  him! 
And  he  was  to  ask  no  reason.  But  the  mes 
sage  did  not  lift  the  weight  from  his  heart. 

"She,  too,  then,  has  found  the  pledge 
burdensome — she,  too!" 

He  had  taken  those  words  of  hers  at  their 
face-value.  They  were  no  better  to  him 
than  ink,  but  she  had  written  them  in  blood. 

"Let  me  see  it." 

Yvonne's  voice  aroused  him  from  his 
stupor.  She  had  been  watching  him 
intently. 

"I  will  let  it  tell  its  own  story,"  he 
thought.  "She  would  have  to  know  in  the 
end." 

Without  a  word  he  handed  her  the  letter. 
323 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

She  read  it  and  laid   it  on  the  bed  beside 
her. 

"In  answer  to  something  from  you?" 

The  note  of  inquisition  in  her  voice  was 
accompanied  by  a  curious  effect  of  great 
self-restraint. 

"To — nothing  from  me,"  answered  Will- 
oughby. 

"Since ?"        The     self-restraint     was 

greater. 

"Since — I  saw  you." 

There  was  tense  silence. 

"But  it  seems,"  said  Willoughby,  con 
fusedly,  "that  Helen  also  had  misunderstood 
her  heart. ' ' 

"Helen  had  misunderstood!" 

The  thin  walls  of  self-restraint  crumbled 
away.  Yvonne's  scornful  voice  pierced 
them  through. 

"Have  you  not  read  her  letter?  Blind, 
blind!  And  you  have  thrown  away  that 
love — for  me." 

She  turned  her  face  away  from  him  and 
closed  her  eyes. 

"You  want  me  to  go,"  said  Willoughby, 
brokenly.  "You  will  never  wish  to  see  me 
again. ' ' 

Yvonne  did  not  stir  or  speak. 
324 


HELEN'S   LETTER 

"There's  two  queer  ones  h'outside 
h'inquiring  for  Miss  Yvonne,"  said  Eliza 
Blodgett,  tiptoeing  in  and  speaking  to  Will- 
oughby  in  a  sick-room  whisper. 

"Did  they  give  their  names?" 

"They  spoke  some  sort  of  gibberidge 
w'ich  I  couldn'  make  out.  Perhaps  they're 
not  right  i'  the  'ead,  for  they  couldn't 
h'understand  my  h' English,  neither.  One 
of  them  has  a  sort  o'  pumpkin  skin  an' 
h'eyes  that  looks  clean  through  you. 
T'other  one  is  a  priest,  I  take  it,  with  the 
black  skirts  to  'is  coat  and  the  cross  'e  wears 
on  'im.  I  stood  'em  in  the  'all,  till  I  should 
h'ask  you." 

Willoughby  went  out  and  saw  in  the  hall 
Pole'on  Gros-Louys  and  the  Abbe  St.  Glair. 


325 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE     DERELICT 

When  the  derelict,  the  prey  of  wind  and 
wave  for  many  a  year,  floats  up  against  the 
noble  ship  that  has  just  foundered  on  a  rock, 
what  will  they  say  to  each  other? 

Pierce  Willoughby  sat  with  Brockton  Van 
Eyck  in  his  prison  cell. 

Willoughby  had  read  that  afternoon  before 
the  Gracchian  Club  a  paper  called  "The 
Reformer  and  the  Outcast."  It  had  been 
promised  months  before.  He  had  made  a 
powerful  appeal  to  society  to  gather  in  the 
outcasts  by  making  them  feel  that  the  world 
was  fellow-sharer  with  them  of  their  guilt 
and  suffering. 

When  he  first  met  Van  Eyck  his  hand- 
grasp  had  been  hearty,  but  he  could  not 
keep  the  alien  look  out  of  his  eyes.  He  saw 
two  men  sitting  side  by  side.  One  was  the 
Van  Eyck  of  years  ago,  of  the  Fen  tons' 
dinner-table,  the  finished  product  of  Ameri 
can  idlesse,  with  his  languid  satire,  his  Eng 
lish  slang,  clever  by  imitation,  a  gentleman 
327 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

by  inheritance.  There  is  a  pink  flush  under 
the  coolly-staring  eyes  and  a  nerveless  droop 
at  the  corners  of  the  clean-shaven  lips. 
But  so  carefully  groomed  is  he  from  head  to 
foot  that  such  slight  traces  of  excess  lend 
almost  an  air  of  patrician  lassitude  to  his 
handsome  features. 

And  here  sits  the  other,  with  that  dreadful 
look  on  his  face  of  a  man  who  has  done  with 
life  and  dares  look  neither  behind  nor 
before. 

The  respectful  clothes  of  years  ago,  guilt 
less  of  wrinkle  and  bulge,  are  replaced  by 
the  indulgent  clothes  that  lashly  yield  to  the 
relaxed  outlines  of  the  body,  hooping  over 
the  sunken  chest  and  creasing  around  the 
flaccid  waist. 

Swollen  eyelids  droop  over  wandering  eyes 
and  a  dark  mustache  shades  the  flabby  lips. 

Willoughby  had  wished  to  come  as  a 
friend  and  helper,  but  he  underwent  a 
physical  and  moral  revulsion  in  the  presence 
of  such  degeneracy.  That  Yvonne  should 
suffer  at  the  hands  of  him  seemed  intoler 
able. 

What  he  had  planned  to  say,  wise  words 
of  cheer  and  counsel,  slipped  from  him. 
When  one's  will  is  at  war  with  one's  feelings 
328 


THE    DERELICT 

the  result  is  often  a  vacuum.  Therefore  he 
sat  silent,  seemingly  on  the  point  of  speech, 
with  a  curiously  pained  look  in  his  blue  eyes 
and  his  mouth  sterner  than  usual. 

His  silence  stung  Brockton  to  reckless 
utterance. 

"I  don't  care  a  rap  what  they  do  with 
me."  He  flung  one  leg  over  the  other  and 
thrust  his  hands  into  his  trousers'  pockets. 
"It's  a  bad  world;  better  out  of  it  than  in. " 

"For  the  world!"  Willoughby  thought,  and 
instantly  scorned  himself  for  the  alien  cold 
ness  which  he  could  not  conquer. 

"It  was  myself  I  meant  to  send  out — no 
one  else — not  her.  Oh,  not  her." 

Brockton's  voice  quivered,  and  he  dropped 
the  bravado.  "How  is  she?" 

Willoughby  held  back  for  a  moment  from 
an  answer. 

The  blurred  eyes  steadied  themselves  on 
him.  "She  is  not " 

"No,  no,"  Willoughby  answered,  wildly. 
' '  She  lives.  She  may  recover. ' ' 

"You  have  talked  with  her?  What  does 
she  say?  Does  she  know ?" 

"She  knows  nothing,  of  you,"  answered 
Willoughby,  loathly. 

"Thank  heaven!" 

329 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

The  tears  coursed  down  his  cheeks.  "I — • 
I — loved  her,  Willoughby.  She  could  have 
made  anything  of  me." 

He  drew  himself  up  with  a  phantasma 
goric  show  at  manliness. 

"I  would  not  have  hurt  a  hair  of  her  head. 
I  would  have  stood  up  for  her  against  the 
world,  by  God,  I  would." 

The  maudlin  tears  fell  again. 

"I  can't  tell  what  I  do  at  times.  I'm  a 
staring  idiot  or  the  whole  world's  a  staring- 
idiot." 

He  leaned  forward  '  and  whispered 
hoarsely  into  Willoughby's  face. 

"I  hardly  knew  what  happened  that  night. 
I  took  my  pistol  out,  I  thought  I  did.  I 
don't  know  what  I  did  with  it.  The  sight  of 
her  drove  me  wild.  Then  I  heard  the  shot. 
I  didn't  know  I  had  shot  till  they  gathered 
round  and  cursed  me.  My  eyes  play  the 
mischief  with  me.  But  I  didn't  care  if  they 
dragged  me  off.  Curse  you,  you  bloomin' 
fools." 

"Why  can  I  not  say  a  word?"  Willoughby 
thought.  "Why  am  I  speechless  before  siich 
need?" 

"Hypocrite,"  his  conscience  suddenly 
accused  him.  "You  are  stooping  down  as  if 
330 


THE  DERELICT 

from  a  height,  when  you  should  stand  face 
to  face  with  this  man.  You,  fallen  too,  like 
him." 

Pierce  roused  himself  to  speak,  hushing 
the  voice  that  snarled  at  him  within. 

' '  Do  not  think  of  the  past.  Think  of  what 
you  yet  may  be.  God  has  given  us  that 
great  gift,  the  future.  We  can  build  up 
again  what  has  fallen  down. ' ' 

His  voice  rang  hollowly  in  his  own  ears. 

"D the  future,"  exclaimed  Brockton, 

with  an  oath.  "It's  what  I'm  always 
thinking  about.  It's  hideous. " 

"God!"  cried  Willoughby.  He  dropped 
on  his  knees  beside  the  window;  his  fore 
head  touched  the  bars. 

The  keeper  who  sat  outside  the  door 
watched  him  woodenly. 

His  own  Future  came  before  him  then,  a 
ghastly  apparition.  She  stood  with  a  sneer 
upon  her  lips,  pointing  at  Helen,  straight 
brows  severely  drawn  over  gray  eyes  of 
reproach;  at  Yvonne,  with  her  face  turned 
toward  the  wall.  Behind  his  Future  stood 
Public  Reform,  a  noble  figure  of  immaculate 
mien;  on  the  other  side  crouched  Private 
Dishonor.  And  the  faces  of  both  were  his 
own. 

33i 


THE  LADY  OF  THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

"Pray!"  said  Brockton.  "You  are  a 
good  man.  Pray,  quick. ' ' 

He  propped  himself  up  upright  on  the 
pallet,  his  two  arms  rigid  by  his  side,  his 
clenched  hands  indenting  the  mattress,  as 
he  pressed  his  weight  upon  them. 

"I  cannot,"  said  Willoughby,  curtly.  "I 
am  guiltier  than  you. " 

He  still  knelt,  having  no  thought  but  of 
his  own  degradation. 

"You  have  not  been  false  to  a  true 
woman.  I  have.  You  have  not  paraded 
before  men.  I  have.  You  have  not 
deceived  yourself.  I  have. " 

Drily,  without  a  trace  of  sentiment  in  his 
voice,  he  spoke.  He  was  strangely 
unmoved.  But  he  still  knelt. 

Then  some  one  prayed,  not  Willoughby. 
Van  Eyck,  who  had  never  prayed  before, 
spoke  to  his  Maker.  He  spoke  of  himself  as 
if  he  had  been  another.  He  spoke  to  God 
as  if  God  had  been  a  man.  He  did  not 
know  that  he  spoke  aloud. 

"God,  you  gave  him  your  terrible  gift  of 
too  much.  They  were  all  his,  once,  and 
more, — all  that  a  man  craves  and  more.  He 
took  from  your  hands  and  was  not  satisfied. 

"God,  you  starved  him  with  satiety,  you 
332 


THE   DERELICT 

impoverished  him  with  abundance.  In  the 
blaze  of  the  sun  the  soul  wilted.  With  the 
never-ceasing  showers  the  roots  rotted  away. 
There  is  no  longer  room  for  him  in  the 
garden.  Pull  up  the  exhausted  plant  and 
toss  it  away.  God,  I  beseech  you,  forget 
him  utterly!" 

The  deep  silence  that  falls  between  two 
persons  fell  between  these  two.  It  was 
deeper  than  the  silence  of  solitude.  The 
Devil  listened,  not  understanding  the 
prayer.  For  it  was  his  prayer,  "God,  for 
get  him  utterly. ' ' 

And  one  of  the  prayers  ascended  to  heaven. 

Van  Eyck,  sitting  tipright  on  his  bed, 
with  unbuttoned  vest  and  damp  hair  matted 
on  his  forehead,  drew  a  long  sigh.  "To  be 
forgotten!"  That  was  the  goal  of  his 
desires.  What  a  pitiful  period  to  the  manu 
script  of  life!  That  all  one's  strivings 
should  come  just  to  this!  To  be  blotted  off 
the  slate! 

The  darkness  settled  round  him  in  the 
cell.  The  street  sent  up  an  inarticulate 
murmur. 

Willoughby's  head,  as  he  knelt  in  front 
of  the  window,  caught  the  fading  streaks  of 
light  from  the  iron-barred  sky. 

333 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

The  prayer  went  on.  The  man  on  the 
pallet  listened  now. 

"Thou  God,  who  makest  the  grass  to  fade, 
who  pluckest  up  the  strong  tree  by  the  roots 
that  it  perishes  utterly,  merciful  God,  who 
scatterest  the  seeds  abroad,  that  the  dead 
plants  live  an  hundred-fold,  pluck  from  this 
poor  withered  stem  its  seed  of  life  and  plant 
it  in  fruitful  soil.  Merciful  Creator,  water  it 
with  thy  Goodness  and  cause  thy  sun  to 
shine  upon  it,  that  it  may  grow  again  to  be 
fair  and  strong. 

"Son  of  God,  we  have  sinned,  we  have 
sinned.  Not  for  honor,  not  for  hope,  not 
for  love,  do  we  beg.  Not  for  life  we  have 
lost.  But  that  we  may  enter  thy  kingdom 
with  Salvation  writ  on  our  foreheads. 
Lamb  of  God,  that  washest  away  the  sins  of 
the  world,  grant  us  thy  Peace." 

"Time's  up,"  said  the  warden,  knocking 
on  the  door. 

Willoughby  took  Brockton's  hand.  His 
Saxon  instinct  made  him  commonplace 
again. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said. 

But  he  had  no  response.  The  man's 
ringers  were  limp  in  his  grasp.  Willoughby 
looked  closer  and  a  vacant  stare  met  his 

•     334 


THE   DERELICT 

gaze,  an  unseeing  stare  from  the  bloodshot 
light-brown  eyes. 

"Something  will  come  to  her  on  the 
tenth,"  Van  Eyck  was  muttering.  "She 
will  be  happy  at  last — at  last. ' ' 


335 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE     CALLING 

There  is  no  place  in  the  world  so  quiver 
ing  with  high-strung  intensity  as  a  great 
railway  station.  The  air  is  palpitant  with  a 
thousand  decisions  and  undecisions.  Not 
the  lobby  of  the  House  before  the  reading  of 
a  capitalist's  bill,  not  a  down-town  hotel  on 
the  eve  of  a  general  election,  not  a  news 
paper  office  before  going  to  press,  not  even 
the  corridor  of  a  woman's  college  at  com 
mencement  time,  can  show  a  tithe  of  the 
taut  and  screaming  electricity  that  tingles 
through  one's  blood  in  a  railway  station  just 
before  an  overland  train  pulls  out  on  its 
momentous  journey. 

Three  men  had  passed  under  the  grim 
castellated  entrance  of  Euston,  and  were 
waiting  for  the  Midland  Express.  Only  one 
of  the  three  was  unmoved  by  the  babel 
around  them,  and  he  was  the  one  who  had 
never  before  seen  its  like.  The  crimson- 
painted  engine  slid  round  the  curve  and 
stood  waiting  before  the  platform.  An 
337 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

army  of  porters  and  passengers  ran  hither 
and  thither.  Boxes  and  portmanteaus  were 
piled  in  inextricable  confusion.  People  ran 
helplessly  back  and  forth  from  coach  to 
coach.  The  bell  began  to  toll  dreadfully. 
The  glaring  engine  puffed  slowly  forward. 
The  last  belated  traveler  was  forbidden 
right  of  way  by  a  Rhadamanthine  officer. 
Puff,  screech,  groan;  thud,  thud,  thud,  the 
Midland  Express  was  fairly  off,  watched 
by  admiring  eyes  of  station  loungers  and 
employe's.  Calm  reigned  out  of  chaos,  a 
calm  that  by  contrast  seemed  a  negation  of 
life. 

The  Abbe  St.  Clair  read  absorbedly  by 
the  coach  window.  Poison  and  Willoughby, 
opposite,  talked. 

A  common  love  and  a  common  sorrow  had 
brought  these  two  natures  together.  Dis 
similar  almost  as  if  born  on  different 
planets,  they  had  each  understood  the  other 
from  the  moment  of  the  colloquy  in  Eliza 
Blodgett's  hall.  No  jealousy,  no  rivalry, 
marred  the  perfect  understanding.  For  two 
enemies  may  clasp  hands  on  the  battle-field 
at  evening. 

They  talked,  but  they  did  not  converse. 
An  Indian  does  not   converse.     Something 
338 


THE   CALLING 

in  his  unwonted  surroundings,  in  the  fore 
boding  sense  of  calamity,  perhaps  the 
detachment  from  life  one  experiences  in  the 
onward  oblivious  rush  of  a  railway  train, 
broke  down  Poison's  reserve.  He  lost  him 
self  in  monologues.  At  rare  intervals,  when 
Willoughby  spoke,  he  listened  without 
seeming  to  listen. 

"In  the  great  northern  country  one  is 
alone  for  days.  There  is  no  sound  but  the 
far  howl  of  a  wolf  and  the  creaking  of  a 
frozen  bough  in  the  bitter  wind.  Some 
times  there  is  soft  stepping  around  the  door 
at  night.  But  the  camp-fire  guards  you. 
All  is  white,  white.  One  is  always  alone. 
It  is  good  to  be  alone.  Men  are  not  like 
fishes  to  go  in  sliddering  shoals  or  like 
screaming  terns  to  travel  in  black  wedges  or 
like  cattle  to  huddle  together  in  a  shed.  I 
have  lived  a  hundred  lives  in  a  day  in  the 
great  north  country.  I  go  swiftly  on  snow- 
shoes  over  the  deep,  deep  snow/and  my  soul 
walks  beside  me.  One  has  to  be  silent 
many  days,  and  the  forest  must  be  great, 
and  then  in  the  long,  white  hours  your  soul 
will  walk  beside  you.  You  can  hear  her  soft 
breathing  like  a  sigh  of  wind  in  the  topmost 
plumes  of  a  tall  pine  when  the  underwoods 

339 


THE  LADY  OP  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

are  still.  She  is  like  a  clear,  white  shadow, 
and  she  says:  'Here  am  I.  You  are  no 
more  alone. ' 

"One  must  know  the  forest  first,  where 
the  moose-beds  are  in  the  big  swamps  and 
where  the  winding  streams,  locked  in  ice; 
where  the  underbrush  is  like  a  solid  wall, 
and  where  the  open  country  sets  in.  Then, 
on  a  windless  night  one  steps  out,  noiseless, 
and  calls  the  moose.  If  the  wind  blows, 
ever  so  gently,  one  must  be  to  the  leeward 
of  the  wind,  or  the  moose  will  smell  you,  a 
man.  A  moose  is  wise.  He  has  a  soul  as 
large  as  a  man's.  He  has  knowledge. 
Sometimes  he  is  enchanted,  the  old  Indians 
say.  They  mean  the  soul  of  a  man  has 
gone  into  him.  When  a  moose  with  his  red 
eyes  and  his  great  antlers  stands  above  a 
man  and  stamps  the  life  out  of  him  with  his 
strong,  iron  hoofs,  the  life  of  the  man  goes 
into  the  moose.  So  they  say,  and  then  he  is 
enchanted.  I  do  not  know  whether  this  is 
so.  I  have  known  things  more  wonderful. 

"It  was  a  moonlight  night  up  by  the  Mis- 
tassini  River.  The  ground  had  been  locked 
for  weeks,  and  the  snow  was  crusted  over 
hard  as  glass.  That  day  the  south  wind  had 
blown  and  the  snow  on  the  trees  in  the  open 
340 


THE  CALLING 

places  had  melted  a  little  at  noontime  and 
fallen.  St.  Christophe!  What  a  night  it 
was  to  call  the  moose !  One  could  walk  on 
the  snow  like  a  feather  on  the  sea.  The 
snow  dropped  from  the  branches  and  one 
could  move  through  the  brush  without  fear. 
On  a  still  night  even  a  Huron  will  be 
betrayed  by  his  noise.  The  south  wind 
blew  the  smell  of  me  back.  The  moose 
were  hungry,  and  would  be  coming  out  to 
feed. 

"I  had  my  rifle  ready  and  stood  behind  a 
tree.  I  called  them.  Sacre",  how  I  called! 
One  who  has  heard  the  moose  call  can  never 
forget.  One  long  note  pulled  out  like  pain, 
and  after,  breaking  into  a  hundred  stars  that 
dance  away  alive  through  the  forest.  Then 
you  gather  them  all  in  again  like  darting 
minnows  in  a  net,  all  in  your  mouth  until 
your  body  is  full  of  breath,  and  then  your 
soul  goes  out  of  your  mouth  again  as  white 
and  round  and  shining  as  the  moon.  That 
is  the  moose-call.  Even  an  enchanted 
moose  could  not  have  doubted  that  call.  I 
heard  them  coming  from  the  bogs.  Far 
away  the  branches  crackled,  and  the  snow 
crashed  once  beneath  the  feet  of  a  buck. 
They  are  careful  as  a  cat,  and  will  often  step 
34i 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

as  velvetly.  So  this  was  a  good  sign.  I 
knew  I  had  given  the  call  of  a  Gros-Louys. 
I  waited.  They  were  coming  toward  me, 
two,  it  might  be  three,  and  I  had  my  rifle 
ready. 

"The  moon  looked  down  through  the  trees. 
The  shadows  on  the  snow  were  very  black. 
Then  something  happened.  I  did  not  know 
what  it  was,  but  the  moose  suddenly 
stopped.  They  heard  something  which  I 
did  not  hear,  for  a  moose  is  wiser  than  a 
man. 

"I  listened,  and  I  heard  it,  too.  It  was 
not  like  any  moose-call  I  had  ever  heard,  but 
the  animals  believed  it.  It  was  as  if  each 
one  were  rushing  to  his  mate.  There  was  a 
mighty  crackling  and  crashing,  and  then  I 
heard  them,  kak,  ak,  k;  pung,  ung,  ng; 
clid,  id,  d.  All  the  noise  of  them  grew  faint 
and  fainter  in  answer  to  that  strange,  new 
call. 

" 'O-dil-o-ro-han-nin. '  It  was  the  voice 
of  my  mate,  too.  My  heart  grew  tight  as  I 
heard  it,  and  I  dropped  my  rifle. 

"'O-dil-o-ro-han-nin.'     As  faint  as  a  star 

at  sunrise,  deep  like  the  eyes  of  a  wounded 

doe.      Now   near  and  now  far,   it  sounded 

through  the  forest  by  the  Mistassini  River. 

342 


THE   CALLING 

Sometimes  in  the  branch  above  my  head  and 
sometimes  from  the  moon. 

"I  answered  the  call.  That  is  why  I  am 
here." 

The  train  was  speeding  through  rural 
England  now,  on  its  way  to  Scotland  and 
Yvonne.  Little  red  thorpes,  snug  farms 
amid  their  hedge-rows,  rushed  into  and  out 
of  view. 

The  long  English  twilight  began  to  fall. 

" gray  twilight  poured 

On  dewy  pastures,  dewy  trees, 
Softer  than  sleep — all  things  in  order  stored, 
A  haunt  of  ancient  Peace." 


343 


CHAPTER   VIII 

AT    CHATEAUHERIAULT 

In  the  lowlands  of  Scotland  where  the 
noble  estates  of  Scotch  baronets  and  English 
peers  sweep  mile  on  mile  with  becoming 
British  gravity,  stately  forest,  billowy 
meadow  and  dappled  lawn,  crowned  by  dig 
nified  mansions,  massive  gray  of  stone,  soft 
ened  here  and  there  with  green  of  ivy,  amid 
all  this  serious,  substantial  beauty,*  lies  the 
rococo  anachronism  of  Chateauheriault. 

Centuries  ago  a  nobleman  of  France  had 
married  a  daughter  of  Scotland,  and  had 
held  broad  acres  in  both  countries.  When, 
in  the  course  of  years,  his  French  property 
was  wrested  from  him  this  Scottish  home 
stead  was  refashioned  into  the  exact  likeness 
of  the  French  chateau,  once  his.  It  was  in 
the  early  sixteen  hundreds,  when  Renais 
sance  architecture  and  Italian  gardening 
were  in  vogue.  The  remodeled  mansion 
bore  his  family  name  and  was  ever  afterward 
known  as  Chateauheriault. 

From  the  laughing  pink  and  white  stone 

345 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

face  of  the  turreted,  towered  and  balconied 
mansion  the  land  slopes  down  in  six  ter 
races  till  it  can  slope  no  longer,  and  falls 
-off  into  the  fir-shaded  ravine  where  the 
bracken  and  bluebells  hang  in  the  spray- 
misted  twilight,  and,  in  the  bottom  dark 
ness,  the  Maryburn,  glinted  with  amber, 
purls  along  to  the  Clyde.  The  Count 
would  stand  on  the  stone  steps  of  the 
sixth  terrace,  so  the  stories  run,  leaning 
over  the  balustrade,  and  look  down  on  the 
shadowed  glen  so  unmitigably  Scotch, 
where  the  artificial  lake  and  the  swans 
should  have  been,  and  say  with  a  smile  and 
a  shrug  how  it  reminded  him  of  his  nearest 
neighbor,  a  Scotch  laird,  some  miles  away, 
whose  conversation  would  begin  most  clas 
sically  French,  and  end  with  the  broadest 
Scotch. 

He  must  have  been  a  fanciful  old  lord, 
this  Count  D'Hery,  for  the  six  terraces  were 
each  named  for  one  of  his  six  daughters, 
Isabeau,  Marie,  Alixe,  Heloise,  Lilys  and 
Reine,  and  one  can  still  trace,  in  the  worked 
iron  of  the  benches,  that  are  set  into  the 
green  banks,  the  twisted  initial  of  each 
name,  ending  with  the  elaborate  R,  in  the 
flourishy  iron  seat  on  Reine 's  Terrace.  So, 
346 


AT  CHATEAUHERIAULT 

at  least,  the  story  goes,  and  has  been  handed 
down  from  family  to  family  and  from 
retainer  to  retainer.  Old  Sandy,  the  pres 
ent  gardener,  will  also  point  to  a  thicket  of 
shrubs  and  trees  that  cuts  off  Isabeau's  Ter 
race  from  the  rose-garden  and  is  commonly 
known  as  "The  Six."  He  will  explain  to 
you,  with  many  twinklings  of  the  eye  and 
strokings  of  the  stubbly  chin,  how  these  are 
the  Six  Daughters,  planted  originally  by  the 
old  lord  and  renewed  ever  since  by  nature 
or  art.  Ilex  for  Isabeau ;  myrtle  for  Marie ; 
acacia  for  Alixe;  hawthorn  for  Heloise; 
laurel  for  Lilys,  and  the  rose-tree  for 
Reine. 

"They  are  varry  bonny  lasses,  ye  ken," 
old  Sandy  says,  and,  indeed,  nothing  could 
be  more  charming  than  the  mass  of  roseate 
loveliness  when  the  Six  are  in  bloom. 

All  along  the  stone  wall  that  bounds  the 
terraces  on  one  hand,  climbing  trees  have 
been  set,  quaintly  flattened  out  in  espaliers 
against  its  sunny  face,  and  between  them 
the  lawless  roses  from  the  rosary  beyond 
run  riot.  Old-fashioned  roses  all,  with  old 
names  that  seem  to  carry  something  of 
scent  and  glow  in  their  syllables ;  the  climb 
ing  Provence  roses,  a  very  abandon  of 

347 


THE   LADY  OF  THE    FLAG -FLOWERS 

plump  pinkness  and  profusion;  the  yellow 
eglantine;  the  Ayrshire  rose,  climbing  too, 
but  pale  and  scarce  -  petaled  beside  its 
southern  sister;  the  York  and  Lancaster, 
red  and  white  harlequin  of  the  garden ;  the 
little  Burnet  roses,  white,  pink,  and  yellow; 
and  sweetest  of  all,  the  cinnamon  and  moss- 
roses,  with  their  darling  buds  and  odor  of 
the  spice-box. 

At  the  other  end  the  terraces  are  guarded 
by  a  hedge  of  shrubbery,  tree-of-heaven, 
large-leaved  and  pale-flowered;  althea,  with 
its  great,  vivid,  pink  blooms ;  the  Italian  may 
and  laburnum,  showering  gold.  Here  and 
there  gateways  are  spaced  between  taller 
trees  planted  apart  and  trained  to  interlace, 
slim,  glossy-leaved  oleanders  and  mulber 
ries,  dropping  their  purple  single  berries. 

The  Barrys  had  taken  Chateauheriault  for 
the  season,  and  here,  when  Yvonne's  illness 
proved  obstinately  lingering,  she  herself 
was  brought. 

"Scotland  is  not  a  pretty  place,  but  the 
h'air  is  maybe  fine,"  said  Eliza,  bidding  her 
good-bye.  "They  be  great  for  porridge, 
w'ich  is  not  so  bad,  but  my  sister  as  was 
there  telled  me  of  summat  they  call  haggis. 
It's  nasty  stuff,  and  I  doubt  you  could  stand 
348 


AT   CHATEAUHERIAULT 

it.  Your  stummick's  too  h' English  for  such 
furrin  messes." 

Yvonne  was  very  happy  at  Chateauheri- 
ault,  happier  than  she  had  been  in  many 
years.  She  would  lie  on  Isabeau's  Terrace 
in  the  sun,  propped  up  by  pillows  and 
cushions,  and  watch  the  finger  on  the  sun 
dial  follow  the  slow  hours  round,  while  Tom 
Barry  read  to  her  melodious  passages  from 
English  poets.  One  thing  alone  troubled 
her,  the  separation  between  Helen  and  Will- 
oughby.  A  cable  message  had  been  sent 
to  bring  Helen  over,  and  Yvonne  cherished 
a  solemn  hope  that  the  meeting  would 
result  in  their  reunion,  "and  perhaps  before 
I  die." 

The  last  three  words  she  had  spoken 
aloud. 

"Dear  child,"  said  Barry,  "that  will  be  a 
long  time.  What  are  you  going  to  do 
before  you  die?" 

"I  do  not  know  how  long  a  time,"  replied 
Yvonne.  "The  days  go  very  gently  here. 
Even  one  day  is  long.  See  how  slowly  the 
shadow  moves  on  the  dial's  face." 

"Do  the  days  seem  so  long,  Yvonne?" 
asked  Barry,  with  sudden  compassion. 

"It    is    peaceful    to    have    them    long," 

349 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

Yvonne  answered,  "for  I  am  tired,  just  a 
little  tired,  but  I  like  to  lie  here  and  rest. 
I  am  waiting  for  my  friend  Helen.  That  is 
the  only  reason  I  should  want  the  slow  hours 
to  hurry. ' ' 

When  Helen  came  to  Chateauheriault,  the 
last  shadow  left  Yvonne's  face. 

"Why  do  you  cry?"  she  asked,  laying  her 
hand  on  Helen's  head,  beside  her  on  the 
pillow. 

After  a  while,  Helen  was  calmer. 

"I  understand,"  whispered  Yvonne,  "it 
is  not  for  me.  But  one  who  loves  does  not 
need  to  cry.  Love  will  bring  fulfillment. ' ' 

As  Helen  was  silent,  Yvonne  asked, 
timidly:  "You  still  love  him,  Helen?" 

"  Yes, "  came  from  Helen  in  a  voice  of  rich 
self-surrender. 

"Friend  of  mine!"  Yvonne's  eyes  were 
fervid  with  prescience. 

How  much  Willoughby  had  suffered  in  the 
past  weeks  Helen  realized  when  she  saw 
him.  The  grayer  hair,  the  thinner  face,  the 
deeper  lines,  the  haggard  eyes — she  could 
have  wept  for  pity.  They  clasped  hands 
gravely,  Pierce  with  bowed  head  and 
chastened  look,  Helen  very  pale,  delicate 
lips  severely  set  to  control  her  emotion, 
350 


AT  CHATEAUHERIAULT 

Yvonne  watched  them  from  her  window  as 
they  paced  up  and  down  together,  in  grave 
converse,  on  Isabeau's  Terrace. 

That  evening,  when  all  three  were  again 
together,  Yvonne  looked  from  one  to  the 
other. 

' '  Pierce,  Helen  has  forgiven  you, ' '  she  said. 

As  Willoughby's  eyes  rested  on  Helen 
they  overflowed  with  the  great  repentance 
that  had  followed  the  remorse. 

"Yvonne,"  said  Helen,  breaking  the  si 
lence  which  followed,  "he  and  I  both  know 
that  it  can  never  be. ' ' 

"For  I  am  not  worthy  of  her, "  Willoughby 
added. 

Yvonne  put  her  hand  to  her  side.  "Mon 
Dieu,"  she  exclaimed,  "how  it  hurts  me!" 

When  the  pain  had  passed  she  opened  her 
eyes  and  smiled. 

"Pardon  me,  it  is  gone  now,"  she  said, 
adding  in  a  different  voice,  ' '  I  am  glad  you 
are  together  again  with  me.  It  is  no  matter 
what  you  say.  You  do  not  understand,  for 
you  cannot  read  the  future." 

She  was  smiling  as  if  for  some  deep, 
inward  joy,  nor  did  she  again  seem  troubled 
over  anything.  During  the  time  that  fol 
lowed  a  blither  little  spirit  than  hers  had 
351 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

never  been  known.  In  her  room,  looking 
out  over  the  quaint  flower-inlaid  lawns,  or  in 
her  reclining-chair  by  the  old  sun-dial  on 
Isabeau's  Terrace,  she  was  like  the  soul  of 
spring,  spring  that  passes,  gladdening  the 
earth  that  it  leaves. 

Sandy  had  brought  her  in  some  of  the 
hardy  little  flowers  that  made  the  many- 
colored  borders  around  the  chateau.  There 
was  purple  of  Canterbury  bells,  the  yellow 
and  violet  of  zinnias,  the  hoary  blue  of 
mourning-bride,  the  fragrant  orange  wall 
flowers,  the  pheasant's  eye  pink,  with  its 
raggedy  velvet  petals,  all  in  a  gorgeous 
bunch  of  variegated  color,  texture  and  form. 
Barry  read  to  her  from  the  Shepheards 
Calender: 

"Bring    hether    the     Pincke    and    purple 
Cullumbine, 

With  Gelliflowres, 
Bring  Coronations  and  Sops  in  wine, 

Worne  of  Paramoures: 

Strowe  me  the  ground  with  daffadowndillies, 
And    Cowslips    and     Kingcups    and    loved 
Lillies : 

The  pretie  Pawnee, 

And  the  Chevisaunce 

Shall  match  with  the  fayre  flowre  Delice. ' ' 
352 


AT  CHATEAUHERIAULT 

"How  pretty!"  cried  Yvonne.  "Those 
are  the  flowers  we  have  at  Jeune  Vallette. 
'The  pretie  Pawnee'  with  us  is  all  purple 
and  yellow  and  little,  like  what  you  call 
heart's-ease,  and  the  'fayre  flowre  Delice,' 
that  grows  wild  in  the  meadows  along  the 
river-edges. ' ' 

They  were  all  quiet.  The  fragrance  of 
the  wall-flowers  stole  subtly  into  the  air. 

"I  am  only  waiting  now  till  my  cousin 
comes,"  said  Yvonne,  "and  the  dear 
AbbeV' 

That  had  been  a  curious  expression  of 
hers  which  Barry  had  noticed  before.  She 
was  "only  waiting." 

On  the  day  that  Poison  was  expected 
Yvonne  was  so  much  stronger  that  they 
moved  her  out  upon  the  terrace  for  the 
warm  afternoon  sun.  She  lay  with  her  back 
to  the  sunny  south  wall,  where  the  quince- 
tree  grew  and  the  Provence  roses  boldly 
clambered  over.  Down  at  the  end  of  a 
green  vista  twin  oleanders  were  trained  to 
intertwine. 

"I  somehow  feel,"  said  Yvonne  to  Helen, 
"as  if  I  had  lived  here  before.  Strange,  is 
it  not?" 

Then    Poleon   and   the   priest,  who  had 

353 


THE    LADY  OF   THE   FLAG -FLOWERS 

arrived  a  few  minutes  before,  came  between 
the  arch  of  the  trees,  stepping  softly  upon 
the  close-shorn  grass. 

The  kindly,  inscrutable  eyes  of  the  Abbe* 
looked  into  her  own,  and  only  he  saw  the 
joy  that  was  in  them.  The  long  sunny 
afternoon  went  by.  Slowly  the  shadow 
moved  on  the  sun- dial's  impassive  face. 
The  sound  of  Sandy's  hoe  was  heard,  weed 
ing  the  parterres  below  them  on  Alixe's 
Terrace.  Poleon,  Yvonne  and  the  Abbe" 
were  a  little  group  by  themselves. 

"Je  suis  contente,  contente, "  Yvonne 
murmured.  ' '  I  hear  them  talking  now,  the 
pine-trees  of  my  home." 

When  the  sun  sank  lower  they  were  all 
gathered  round  her.  The  scythes  of  the 
mowers  in  a  distant  meadow  beat  a  swishing 
measure,  sleepily.  The  pink  sunlight, 
slanted  over  the  fir-trees  of  the  glen,  touched 
Yvonne's  forehead. 

"Yes,  Poison,"  they  heard  her  say,  "if 
you  wish  it,  I  also  am  content. ' ' 

Then  that  little  group  were  witness  to  the 
solemn  ceremony  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church  which  made  Pole'on  Gros-Louys  and 
Yvonne  man  and  wife. 

"We  were  promise  of  each  other  ven  we 

354 


AT  CHATEAUHERIAULT 

were  ver1  small,"  she  said,  softly,  relapsing 
into  the  broken  English  of  her  childhood. 
4 ' Il-y  a  longtemps — dans  le  temps  jadis.  He 
vass  of  my  peoples.  I  haf  made  him  much 
misere.  He  gifs  me  ze  pardon.  I  ask  ze 
grande  pardon  of  all. ' ' 

Then  she  took  Pierce' s  hand  and  laid  it 
upon  Helen's  as  they  sat  beside  her. 

"Voila!"  she  said,  'Vest  bon  comme  <ja. 
N'est  pas,  mes  amis?" 

The  sun  sank  lower  yet.  The  shadow  on 
the  dial  crept  round.  The  odor  of  the 
cinnamon  roses  floated  over  the  wall. 

"Ah,  mon  Dieu!"  Yvonne  spoke,  almost 
inaudibly.  "It  makes  so  dark.  Hold  me, 
Poleon.  I  can  no  more  see. " 

With  her  hand  in  her  cousin's,  she  was 
happy  again.  Only  once  after  that  did  she 
fear.  The  long  Scotch  sunset  purpled  the 
old  terraced  garden.  The  Maryburn  gurgled 
deep  down  in  its  glen. 

"La  Dame  aux  Glaieuls!"  Yvonne  cried. 
"I  haf  fear.  She  come  all  sof'ly " 

The  priest  stepped  in  between  Yvonne 
and  Poleon. 

"Fear  not,  my  child!"  he  said,  "look  to 
the  Savior  and  the  Lord  of  your  soul. " 

He  held  the  crucifix  up  before  her  eyes. 

355 


THE  LADY  OP  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

"Sweetest  Lord  Jesus,"  she  murmured. 
The  sun-dial  was  all  in  shadow  now. 
"Yvonne!"  cried  Poison,  in  a  great  voice 
of  grief,    "Dew-of-the-Morning!   My  wife!" 


356 


CHAPTER    IX 

AFTER   THE   TENTH 

"Suffering  from  mental  aberration.  Of 
unbalanced  mind, ' '  had  been  the  finding  of 
the  court  upon  the  case. 

Strong  influence  had  been  brought  to  bear 
that  the  verdict  might  not  be  severe.  It 
was  only  at  rare  intervals  'now  that  he  was 
sane  and  clear.  His  memory  had  utterly 
gone.  He  had  forgotten  the  night  of  The 
Lady  of  the  Flag-Flowers.  He  did  not  even 
know  for  what  he  had  been  imprisoned.  He 
talked  little.  He  seemed  to  see  strange 
sights  and  hear  strange  sounds.  He  would 
sometimes  look  up  with  a  startled  air  or 
seem  listening  for  a  far-away  voice. 

"Is  it  after  the  tenth?"  he  kept  asking  his 
custodians.  "She  promised  to  tell  me  her 
secret  after  the  tenth." 

They  decided  to  take  him  to  Chateauheri- 
ault. 

The  coverlet  under  which  Yvonne  lay  was 
strewn  with  flowers,  not  pale  blossoms, 
heavy-scented,  but  the  gay,  homely  blooms 

357 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  FLAG -FLOWERS 

of  old  gardens.  Scattered  all  above  her 
they  were,  purple  of  Cullumbines  and  pink 
of  Coronations ;  Gilliflowres,  cinnamon  roses 
and  the  "fayre  flowre  Delice. "  She  looked 
like  a  child  fallen  asleep  in  summer's  lap. 
Her  dark  hair  was  loose  about  her  face,  as 
she  had  worn  it  long  ago  at  Jeune  Vallette. 
The  little  features,  in  their  repose,  bore  the 
sealed  look  that  marks  the  Indian.  The 
shadow  of  a  smile  lingered  about  the  still 
mouth. 

"Do  not  waken  her.  She  is  asleep,"  they 
said  to  Brockton. 

"She  smiles,"  he  spoke  very  gently. 
"She  has  her  secret  all  to  herself,  and  the 
great  God  understands. ' ' 


358 


EPILOGUE 


BKARTS-EASC 

To  nothing  dreadful,  but  to  the  place  from  whence 
thou  earnest,  to  things  friendly  and  akin  to  thee." 

—  Epi:titus. 


359 


EPILOGUE 

0*0*0* 

HEART'S-EASE 

The  St.  Gabriel  dashes,  broad-spread  in 
woolly-white  foam,  over  the  rocks  of  the 
rapids,  tosses  into  an  intricate  wonder  of 
spray  and  gathers  itself  together  for  the 
long,  desperate,  downward  plunge  through 
the  narrows  of  the  fir-darkened  gorge.  All 
this  turbulence  is  spanned  by  the  expression 
less  bridge,  and  the  old  mill  looks  down  on 
the  frenzied  river,  in  quiet  wonder.  On  the 
outskirts  of  the  woods  beyond  the  bridge  the 
firs  are  taciturn.  Young  birches  are  near 
them,  the  wind  rippling  over  their  watery- 
twinkling  leaves.  They  whisper  among 
themselves  like  mystery-hugging  children. 
Up  and  down  the  high-road  goes  the  slow, 
intermittent  stream  of  human  life.  The 
habitan  jogs  by  in  his  two-wheeled  cart  to 
Ancienne  Vallette.  Two  little  bare-legged 
Huron  boys  swinging  their  pails  of  blue 
berries,  come  from  the  Chateaubourg  moun 
tain.  A  woman  with  a  basket  of  flowers 
drifts  wearily  along.  Her  large,  flat  hat  is 
361 


EPILOGUE 

tied  down  under  her  chin  with  faded  ribbon. 
There  are  rings  in  her  ears,  and  her  blue 
eyes  in  her  brown,  wrinkled  face  have  an 
uncanny  paleness.  She  sells  flowers  to  the 
sight- seers  that  drive  out  from  Quebec,  wild- 
flowers  from  the  field  and  garden  geraniums 
and  pansies,  tied  together  in  incongruous 
nosegays.  The  habitans  call  her  La  Dame 
aux  Fleurs.  Now  a  two-wheeled  cart  comes 
slowly  along,  and  turns  into  the  high-road 
from  the  Chemin  de  Misere.  A  farmer  and 
his  two  little  girls  sit  together,  and  on  their 
laps  rests  a  small  white  coffin.  Except 
white  streamers  that  float  from  their  bon 
nets,  they  are  scrupulously  in  black  from 
head  to  foot.  From  Misery  Road  comes  the 
cart  with  its  sad  little  burden.  The  same 
cart  that  carries  the  beets  and  the  squashes 
to  the  Lower  Town  Market  carries  some 
little  Lucette  to  her  last  resting-place  in  the 
parish  graveyard  beside  her  mother.  The 
stocky  white  horse  droops  his  head  as  if  in 
sympathy  with  the  grief  of  its  master.  All 
exposed  to  the  public  gaze,  they  go  by,  but 
wrapped  in  the  inviolate  seclusion  of  sor 
row. 

The    little    Huron    children    cease    their 
chatter.      The  Dame  aux  Fleurs  rests  her 
362 


HEART'S -EASE 

basket  on  the  railing  of  the  bridge  and  drops 
an  ave.  The  weather-beaten  guide,  who 
has  been  mending  his  canoe  on  the  steps  of 
his  house  in  the  Huron  village,  leaves  his 
work  and  goes  into  the  somber  chapel. 
Perhaps  he,  too,  will  pray  for  some  remem 
bered  dead. 

In  the  burying  ground  a  man  and  a  woman 
stand  side  by  side.  To  both  of  them  the 
place  is  fraught  with  an  unforgettable  past, 
to  the  man  who  has  twice  before  been 
here,  but  long  ago,  and  to  his  wife  newly 
wed,  who  sees  for  the  first  time  La  Jeune 
Vallette. 

They  stand  by  a  little  stone  sunk  slant 
wise  in  the  straggling  grass  and  wild- 
flowers.  On  its  moss-grown,  unpolished 
face  one  may  faintly  decipher  the  unskillful 
letters,  "En-  memoire,"  and  below  one 
reads,  "Yvonne,  epouse  beaucoup-aime"e. " 

Many  years  the  spring  has  blossomed  and 
paled  above  the  stone,  and  the  wild-flowers 
brightened  and  drifted  away,  in  winged 
seeds  and  wisps  of  down.  In  winter,  the 
deep  snow  has  set  its  seal  on  the  ground, 
and  only  a  frayed  tuft  of  everlasting-flower 
above  the  snow's  blue  whiteness  speaks  of 
the  life  that  is  sleeping. 
363 


EPILOGUE 

Along  the  length  of  the  mound  some  care 
ful  hand  has  pulled  away  the  yarrow  and  the 
daisies  and  planted  it  with  purple  and  yel 
low  heart's-ease.  The  round,  small  faces  of 
the  flowers  look  up  like  innocent,  wondering 
children. 

A  blithe  catch  of  song  comes  from  a 
passer-by  on  the  Chateaubourg  road : 

"Win  I  Nanette? 

I  think  I  may. 
Win  I  Nanette? 

Ah,  nay;  ah,  nay." 


364 


PRINTED  BY  R.  R.  DONNELLEY 
AND  SONS  COMPANY  AT  THE 
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